


Noble Trouble

by lilithduvare



Series: Clash of Worlds [1]
Category: Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternative Universe - The Blacks raise Harry, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Badass!Harry, Crossover, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Fencing, Forced Bonding, Glee drama, Homophobia, M/M, Mention of torture, Oral Sex, Political Games, Pureblood Traditions, Voldemort is dead, powerful!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3599094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithduvare/pseuds/lilithduvare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because a single decision is enough to change others' lives, Harry Potter grows up as Rastaban Lycorice Black, the son of Regulus Black and the Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Far away from Dumbledore's machinations, he grows up to be his own person, learns that family means everything and maybe even meets his match in a sleepy little town in Ohio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I. – A Change in History

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly revised version of the story I first posted on FanFiction.Net. The good news is I started working on it again after so many years, the bad news is that I don't have much time to write because I have my Master's degree and real life to deal with. Nevertheless, I'll try my best to not disappear on you guys again, but can't promise anything.
> 
> Dedication: This story is entirely dedicated to popupman because he deserves it for listening to my ramblings and being a wonderful if a bit evil muse.

 

**_ Part I. – A Change in History _ **

****

** 31 October 1993, Godric’s Hollow **

Sirius Black stood over the lifeless body of his best friend, devastated rage twisting his otherwise striking features into a horrifying mask. He couldn’t feel anything else, just the elemental fury that urged him to destroy the traitor who betrayed his family and destroyed a decade of friendship for glory and personal greed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the frozen horror on James’ face, hazel eyes empty and robbed of the ever present mischievous gleam. The expression was so alien, so ill-fitting of James, who had always been strong and courageous, that Sirius could almost believe it was just another prank. He almost expected James to stand in a corner, silently laughing his arse off under his invisibility cloak and reveal himself when Sirius crouched down to check for life in the body before him.

Nothing happened. His fingers reached the cooling skin, fitting against James’ neck where his living, throbbing vein should have been, but found nothing but stillness. He stared into his best friend’s empty, hazel eyes for a second, then turned his head away, unable to bear the sight. His entire world he was crashing down around him, and he was grasping at the last straws, stubbornly clinging to the hope that it was just a nightmare. He couldn’t even think of what could have happened to Lily and little Harry, because there was no way they could have gotten away no matter how much Sirius wanted to believe it.

Long, tanned fingers clenched around the dark mahogany wand as Sirius finally gathered the courage to leave his friend behind and head for the stairs, expecting more destruction and death, but deep down still trying to hope he would see his godson and James’ wife alive and well. He walked by the open door of Lily and James’ bedroom; it was empty and relatively intact, except for the broken windows. His heartrate picked, nearly choking him as he rushed over to the once cheerful and bright nursery that lay in front of my completely wrecked with Lily Potter’s broken body in its centre as he pushed the door open.

Sirius bit back an anguished scream. He cursed himself for being so stupid, for letting a coward like Peter bear the weight of such a huge secret, and squelched the urge to go after the spineless bastard and tear him to pieces. He would do it, he promised silently, he would torture the disgusting rat and revel in the high pitched, pathetic screams like a good Dark wizard was meant to do, but he had to wait. He had to see his godson, his tiny, adorable little pup for one last time; he had to say his goodbyes and strengthen his vow...

A small whimper pulled him out of his dark musings, a weak, barely audible sound, and Sirius’ head snapped up, shattered grey eyes seeking out the source of the sound, not daring to hope that it was possible. Yet the next whimper was stronger and unmistakeable, and caused him to flee across the room in a mad search for the crying baby, his wand slicing and stabbing through the air to clear the sight before him until he found his Harry’s shivering and twitching form under the protection of a pile of rag-like curtains and blankets.

He could hardly choke back the sobs that welled up in his throat, his wand carelessly slipping from his fingers as he reached forward to touch the soft tuft of raven curls that couldn’t hide the angry red scar on the boy’s forehead. Red rimmed glowing green eyes blinked open at his touch; his godson recognised him instantly and reached out with his small chubby hands, causing Sirius to act without thinking. He lifted the petite body from the floor, cradling it to his chest in a desperate attempt to assure himself it was real, that Harry, his sweet little Harry was alive.

He couldn’t think straight, fear and venomous rage messing his head up beyond repair, however, even through the fog of his broken thoughts he knew he couldn’t leave his godson there.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, repeating that one word like an endearment, still caressing the soft hair under his fingers and listening to the soft hiccups of the child in his arms. He had to do something. He didn’t exactly know why, but he could feel the need to hide his godson, hide him from the world’s eye and Dumbledore’s claws, because that scar on his forehead was not normal. “My Harry, my little pup... No... no... no.”

He didn’t really know what he was doing, his age old training as the future Black lord coming back to him in seconds as he summoned his wand and called forward powers he thought he had long forgotten. Yet the incantations fell from his lips like it was only yesterday when his father shared ancient secrets with him in the confines of the Black library, hidden from the shrewd gaze of his mother and his little brother who was too young and too innocent to hear such things. He shushed the babe while he pricked one of the tiny fingers, taking a few drops of Harry’s blood, his attention never wavering from the slowly emerging form by his feet.

Sirius knew he had not much time left, Dumbledore and his Order would not stay away for much longer and they needed to leave before they arrived. He wasn’t sure why or how he knew this; his instincts were going haywire and compelling him to act without really giving any explanation at all. He could almost see the magic crackling around him; the dark and heady power so familiar and welcoming even after all those years he spent denying his craving for it.

He spared a glance to the charred lump on the other end of the room, noticing a blackened skull and a molten cape through his blurred vision, before he forced himself to turn away from the nauseating sight. His brain refused to connect the dots that carried the harsh and impossible sounding truth, deciding to focus on the lifeless replica of his godson instead. He took in the similarities and clutched the softly babbling baby closer in an attempt to make sure he was there and it was not just his crazed mind playing petty tricks on him.

He murmured reassuring words into the soft hair, then, with a deep breath, he levitated the “dead” child closer to his best friend’s wife. The picture of the sacrificed mother and son broke his heart despite knowing that it wasn’t exactly real. Because Harry was there with him very much alive, small fingers clutching his robe and a tiny nose sniffling against his neck, coating the already damp skin with slick baby saliva.

Somebody threw open the remnants of the door downstairs and a moment later a booming wail filled the trashed room causing Sirius to cringe and collect his wits at least for a second; he had to get away before the intruder came upstairs and saw him and Harry. And no one could see Harry.

Magic crackled around him once again, gathering and sizzling like the beginning of a thunderstorm before he was whisked away, his barely conscious mind pleading to the Ancestors that they survived the journey in one piece...

**[HP/Glee]**

Orion Black never denied that he was a ruthless man, but he always prided himself in placing his family before everything else. He had sold his very soul and life to acquire the position as the Head of the Family – it was his birthright as his father used to say – and murdered his own wife to save his son from being turned into a useless slave in an insane madman’s court. And he hadn’t regretted doing it for a second, because in a true Black’s eyes, there was nothing more important than fighting for one’s own flesh and blood. And Orion had done that, made sure nothing and no one could touch his family.

So it was only expected that he reacted with instant vengeance when someone crossed his carefully crafted wards and broke into his home. With a cruel, most painful curse almost dripping from his lips, he was ready to incapacitate whoever was stupid enough to break into his house only to freeze and close his mouth a moment later when he recognized his older son in the pitiful hunched figure kneeling in the middle of the entrance hall. Sirius was crouching down, unintelligible words blurring into a haze of nonsense as he whispered to something in his arms, something small and fragile and oh so breakable that it caused Orion to stop in his tracks and stare for a second in an attempt to understand the sight before him.

It was a child, a little boy with noticeable Black characteristics, sleeping soundly in the wayward Black heir’s embrace like nothing in the world mattered or was important enough to gain his attention. He was a very attractive child, the profile of his face already gaining a definition despite the still obvious baby-fat, just like any Black child’s face should, however, there was something achingly familiar in the arch of the brow and the chin, a touch of softness that was so different from the Blacks’ sharp angles...

“Why have you brought the Potter heir here, dressed in rags?” Orion asked regally, his tone carrying none of his doubt and surprise.

Sirius raised his head and levelled his father with a flat, empty look sending the older man’s heart into a worried frenzy. What had just happened? “Dead...” Sirius rattled, but that simple word was enough for Orion to understand. After all, the disappearance of the Potter family had been one of the most sought after topics amongst the higher members of the Wizarding Society, not to mention the hysteria it caused in the Middle Class.

“Stand up, Sirius, you are no commoner to kneel on the floor,” Orion ordered, half-expecting his son’s well-known disobedient side to strike again, but Sirius struggled to his feet, his mouth still forming incomprehensible, silent words as he walked forward basically falling into Orion’s chest seeking the warmth and comfort he used to find there when he was a little boy himself.

“They’re dead... empty... killed... Father,” Sirius was suddenly sobbing and choking on his tears at the same time. All of his sane thoughts were long gone, lost in the greedy sea of grief.

Orion’s arms encircled the shuddering form of his elder son and closed his eyes, revelling in the feeling of his child resting against his body after years spent apart. “Hush now,” he chided gently, a tone no one had ever heard from him aside from his boys. “You’re at home. At home, my child.”

“Harry–” came the desperate answer. “Please... Father.”

“Hush, Sirius.” This time Orion’s voice was firmer and less soothing. “You both are safe,” he added and with a firm hold around his son’s shoulder he led the younger wizard down the hall.

He wasn’t surprised when he saw Regulus in the parlour, sitting on the sofa with his back straight as an arrow and just as tense, but standing up the moment he noticed their presence. His charcoal eyes widened slightly at the sight of his brother.

“Father?” Regulus sounded unsure, his concern showing in his voice for once.

“Tell Kreacher to prepare your brother’s room with the utmost care and to draw a hot bath for him as well,” Orion ordered his youngest, ignoring the shift look he shot at the still sleeping babe in Sirius’ hold.

Regulus bowed slightly, biting back his questions, and complied his father’s commands while Orion helped his firstborn to sit on his sibling’s vacated spot taking, the unnaturally pale face between his hands and forcing the young man to look at him. “You are going to take a bath then sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” he said, carefully pronouncing every syllable.

“Harry–”

“Is going to bed with you. Now shush, my son. I’m going to take care of you.”

** 1 November 1993, Grimmauld Place, London **

Sirius didn’t want to open his eyes, because it would have made the hollow emptiness in his chest all too real, and he was too much of a coward to face reality. His best friend... No. It must have been a nightmare; James and little Harry were alright, and they would laugh at his craziness when he told them about it. There was just no way that Wormtail–

A startled gasp was torn from his lungs as blazing hatred flared through his veins, snapping his eyes open and causing reality to crash down on his head without warning. James, Prongs was dead as was Lily, and Harry... He made sure no one could find Harry, ever. Yes, Harry was safe and alive, alive...

Glassy grey orbs slid to the slight form of his godson who was actually sitting in the middle of the bed and watching him, his all too intelligent green eyes aware and oddly knowing, yet still remaining innocent and sweet as a toothy grin formed on the cherry lips. “Paddy,” Harry uttered reaching out for him. “Paddy.”

“I’m here pup,” Sirius breathed, pulling the little body in his lap and squeezing his eyes shut to get rid of the still raging volcano, because it was not time for revenge. Not yet. “You’re going to live a perfect life, away from the cruelty of our world. You’re going to be safe and strong... You’re going to rule this World one day...”

He caressed the angry red scar on the child’s forehead, ignoring the quiet whimper for a second before he replaced his finger with his lips, kissing the scar, the last memento of the terror and destruction that was caused by Voldemort.

It was over.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, causing his head to snap to the side only to see the unforgettable face of his little brother. “It’s time to get up, Sirius,” Regulus urged in his quiet voice. “The young Potter needs to eat and bathe.”

“It’s over, Reg,” Sirius whispered in answer. “It’s finally over.”

Pale lips pressed together for a second, his sibling’s only sign of confusion, before Regulus nodded his head and curled his fingers around Sirius’ left wrist. “Good. Now come.”

Sirius didn’t know why he let himself get dragged around by his brother, half-mindedly listening to Harry’s subdued babble and watching the dark, ominous walls of his family home without really seeing anything. He felt strangely catatonic, his heart stolen and destroyed, and only reacted when strong hands tried to take his godson away from him.

He snarled and growled, reaching for his wand that wasn’t there, but his brother snapped at him, using a tone so alike their father’s, making him obey without really meaning to. It was demeaning to know he could still fall under Orion Black’s command and power. It killed the last remnants of his adolescent arrogance, because what had he been thinking? He had never been his own man and despite all the fights and resistance, he would never be.

“Sit down.” He did, staring at his rapidly filling plate, hating the feeling of uselessness, but having no will to break it. “Now eat and after that we shall talk.”

It was his father this time, the hint of iron and sweet honey in his voice giving him away, but Sirius didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the older wizard’s presence, just raised his fork to put some eggs in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, never once tasting anything on his tongue, slipping deeper and deeper into depression without the only anchor that was able to chain him to the World of the Living.

“Stop the melodrama, Sirius and look at me!” Orion commanded sternly, his stormy eyes flashing dangerously. “This is no time for wallowing in self-pity and grief. You brought a child to my house, the child of my cousin and the future Head of a Noble House. I would appreciate if you explained yourself.”

Explain, his father said.

“Voldemort is dead,” he blurted out bluntly an angry sneer marring his lips. “James is dead. Lily is dead. They’re dead. Dead. Dead!” He didn’t notice how his voice raised and turned hysteric. Something shattered on the floor next to him, but he couldn’t care less, because they were dead and left him behind to avenge their tragedy. James left him behind... Lost.

His father didn’t show any sign of distress as he watched him throw a tantrum like a naughty, spoiled child. He simply lifted a perfectly shaped brow and asked, “How did the child survive?”

“Harry.”

“Harry, then.”

Sirius scowled, hearing the distaste towards the less than noble name, but Orion was waiting, patient and unmoved as always, his soft heart buried under the wall of ruthless coldness he was infamous for. “You know. You can feel it.”

“Say it, my child.” It wasn’t request and he couldn’t fight the weight of those words. He was still a member of the family no matter how his mother wanted to believe otherwise. His father hadn’t abandoned him.

“He survived the curse. He survived...” He couldn’t bear it; that gaze was too much, looking through him, knowing and owning him beyond everything, the bonds of blood singing and tightening around his soul. “The Killing Curse.”

There was a sharp intake breath, but it didn’t came from the Black Patriarch. Regulus was standing in the doorway, his charcoal eyes wide and disbelieving, yet suddenly understanding as they flickered down onto the scarred forehead of the baby in his arms.

“He is just a child,” he whispered. “And the Dark Lord–”

“Was an arrogant, worthless mongrel who believed himself above everyone else,” Orion spat, disgusted. “Stop gawking like a fish out of water, it’s most unbecoming of you. The child needs to be fed.”

“Yes, father,” Regulus complied taking his seat on his father’s right and seating Harry on his lap.

Sirius’ hands balled into fists even though he knew he had to let his godson go. He would be safe with his family, safe and happy. They would teach him how to follow the Old Ways properly, how to become someone that was worth following, someone that could destroy and conquer all of his enemies. They would teach him the ways of a True Lord, because it was Harry’s birthright.

Yet, the rightness of his own broken actions didn’t lessen the pain of losing the last true link he had with his best friend. It didn’t lessen the guilt in his hollow chest for never realising what was going on, for his moronic suggestion of switching the Secret Keeper... It was his fault and he had to make things right. Had to pay for his foolishness–

Kreacher popped into the room with a dramatic bow, offering the Daily Prophet to his Master who nodded in dismissal a sardonic smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the headline. “I see Dumbledore has already declared the freedom of our nation,” he commented idly. “Raising a dead child to a nonexistent pedestal, how plebeian, don’t you think, Regulus?”

Sirius looked at his brother, nails digging into his palms until they drew blood, but Regulus was too busy feeding little Harry with small apple and pear cubes to pay any attention to him. “Indeed, father. Dumbledore’s style has become even more distasteful in his old age. Muggle loving old fool.”

“I have to agree. Sacrificing an old Noble family just like that...” Orion shook his head in disapproval, making Sirius’ blood boil at his father’s careless detachment, failing to notice the sharp gleam in the steely irises. “But nothing is over quite yet.” Out of nowhere his father’s attention focused on him with a touch of earnest tenderness mixing into the cold facade of his striking mask. “He is going to pay, my child, pay for your loss and his crimes against our Society.”

It was a vow, like the one he made the night before and the mere knowledge calmed his frazzled mind. “Thank you, father.” He bowed his head to hide the tears that filled his eyes. It seemed despite what he thought, he still had a heart. “Ask anything–”

“Good boy,” Orion smiled in approval. “However, we have more important things to concentrate on at the moment. Such as proving your innocence to the World.”

“You forget the slanderers against the Black name,” Regulus added, a dark smile adorning his handsome face.

“Of course, but it’s nothing your brother has to concern himself with. For now.” Thunderstorm eyes froze him on the spot, the family bonds activating in his blood once again. “You take your time to grieve, Sirius. Embrace your demons and slaughter them at once, like a true Black should, because you are going to be an unstoppable force in our war against Degradation.”

It was an order that gave him something to live for. A plan slower, but crueller and more effective than his own bloodlust filled, half-formed plots that included killing the traitor with his bare hands. A True Black was never blinded by their instincts and such lowly urges as bloodlust. A True Black was always patient and obliterated their enemies with precisely calculated coldness. It was something ingrained in every Black child’s heart and blood, it was unavoidable and unstoppable; it was the only reason Sirius hadn’t gone after Peter Pettigrew the moment he laid his eyes on the lifeless body of his best friend.

A lethal smile curled his lips as the broken pieces of his soul started to frost over. He would do this, he would stop fighting against his true nature. After all, there was no one to tie him to the “Light Side” anymore.

 


	2. Part II. – Child Prodigy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains mentions of torture.

**_ Part II. – Child Prodigy _ **

**__ **

** 12 May 1998, Chateau de Black, Bretagne, France **

“I see you are as devoted to your studies as ever,” a voice commented from the doorway, causing the little boy in the comfortable armchair to look up and offer a soft, eager smile to the newcomer.

“Knowledge is power, Uncle Sirius. Power a True Black always knows how to use,” the child quoted earnestly, almost unearthly green eyes glinting in amusement. “I’m glad you came.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Sirius smirked devilishly as he stepped into the library and took the seat across from his godson. “I see my father keeps you busy.”

“Naturally, I’m the youngest Black Heir after all.” The boy raised his small chin proudly, and still he managed to pull the act off without an ounce of arrogance. It was a mere statement of the truth. “I hope you’re staying,” he changed the topic out of sudden, his voice becoming more high pitched and childish, more suited for a five-year-old. “Papa promised you would teach me how to ride an Abraxan if I was able to charm every light in the room green.”

“Your Papa promised, huh?” Sirius snorted softly, but the smile didn’t leave his lips. Only his godson would take a task like that seriously. Still he didn’t want to deflate the child’s enthusiasm. “And a True Black never backs down from a challenge.”

“Of course not! I made the lights green!” the boy grinned with shining eyes. “Every one of them! Though Grandfather became expectionally furious when he learned about it. He even called Papa a fool...”

The older man’s expression darkened as he realised what the child was implying. “Your father can be thankful I wasn’t here to curse his arse to the next decade,” he gritted out. “Allowing you to practice magic without consulting with someone beforehand. What was he thinking?”

“Papa has been there all the while,” the boy argued, pursing his pink lips, unknowingly copying his father’s habit. “But I’m not a baby anymore. I can handle myself.”

“No one questioned your competence, Harry,” Sirius said, reproaching his godson gently.

“No one calls me that name anymore.” It was still strange, knowing that the five-year-old could still recall the time when his name didn’t follow the Black tradition and honoured a star. But Harry, or Rastaban, as Orion named him, remembered his old name; it was the only thing that was left of his past besides a desperate scream and a sharp green light.

“They wouldn’t,” Sirius agreed, reaching over the small table to run his fingers through the feather-like ink black tresses. “To the world, your name is Rastaban Lycoris Black. But to me, you are Harry, my sweet little Harry, and nothing can change this fact.”

“But only to you,” Harry whispered as he leaned into the touch, enjoying the rare moment he could spend in the company of his uncle.

Sirius was never there. He was busy, his Papa said, ensuring the power of the Black family and making preparations. For what he never said, but the answer was always the same, spiking the little boy’s curiosity more and more. Sadly, there were no clues, not in the lilt of his Papa’s tone or on his striking face. No, his Papa was a True Black and his mask was perfect, something Rastaban was determined to achieve one day.

He knew his uncle was deeply involved in the British Politics, being backed up by the Malfoy and Davis Houses. He even heard – while secretly eavesdropping on his Papa and Grandfather’s conversation one day during his recess time – that Lady Zabini and the young Lord Nott were considering allying themselves with the family. So it was obvious that Uncle Sirius was a busy man, but it didn’t mean that Rastaban didn’t miss his presence and the spark of mischievousness that was buried under layers and layers of slyness and dark charm.

His Papa once called Uncle Sirius a snake in lion cloth, something that confused Rastaban until he learned that his uncle had been a Gryffindor during his time at Hogwarts, a place he would never see if his family had anything to say about it.

 _“It’s the centre of Degradation, my child,”_ his Grandfather told him once and at that time Rastaban didn’t understand what those words meant, and even now, years later he was not sure.

“I brought you something,” Sirius spoke up, breaking the blissful silence making the young child open his eyes. “I think you’re going to find it to your liking.”

A thick, dark purple velvet bound book appeared on the top of the table, the silver embroider telling a never ending and always changing story of mythical creatures and heroic knights giving Rastaban a good clue what the creamy parchment pages hid. “A fairytale book. Why?”

“Because you need something that reminds you that despite your sharp mind and sophisticated tongue, you are still a child,” Sirius stated offering a smile he rarely showed even to his family. “I’m sure your Papa would be delighted to read them for your.”

“Are they about magic?” Glowing green eyes shone with excitement, an unusual show of childishness coming from the reserved young Black Heir.

“You’ll have to wait and see, my Harry. Just wait and see.”

****

** 1 April 1999, Chateau de Black, Bretagne, France **

“What were you thinking?!” Regulus whispered harshly, his wand pointed at his father, forcing the older wizard to take a step back. “How could you send him to that place, knowing our enemies–”

“He was supposed to be safe,” Orion retorted coldly, his grey eyes unforgiving as he tried to force Regulus into submission. However, this time Regulus was having none of it.

“That little, worthless piece of trash tortured him! Used the Cruciatus curse on him, Father! And you say he was _supposed_ to be safe?” Regulus shot back, fury lacing his tone, but his father only raised his chin haughtily and sneered in answer.

“You can rest assured, I’ve already dealt with the culprit accordingly,” came the derisive response and those words were enough to set Regulus’ blood aflame. Dark red sparks shot out of his wand in warning and he snarled like a cornered animal, his usual gentle facade long forgotten.

He wanted to make his father suffer for those words; he wanted the blasted man to scream just like Rastaban had screamed when that bastard put him under that curse. He could still see the wild brown irises that practically devoured his little boy’s writhing body, and that wide, smug grin that basically split that arrogant, pale face upon hearing Rastaban’s heart-wrenching screams of agony.

Regulus’ fingers twitched in agitation, and he had to take a deep breath to prevent himself from actually uttering that unforgivable word. “You disgust me,” he spat, drawing great satisfaction from the stricken expression that overcame his father’s face. It only lasted for a second before the usual frozen mask slipped back into its place and he opened his mouth, but Regulus wasn’t done speaking. “You can’t solve everything with revenge and devious master plans that ruin at least a dozen people’s lives. I practically begged you to reconsider sending him to Bauxbatons, but you went along with your fucked up plan nonetheless.”

He didn’t raise his voice, mindful of his son’s still unconscious form lying motionlessly in the bed next to him. A cold little hand was clasped between his much bigger fingers, and if he hadn’t heard the slow, even rhythm of Rastaban’s heartbeat in the back of his mind, he would have almost believed his child was gone and truly lost to them.

Regulus suppressed a despaired shudder at the thought of losing the little boy who he fell in love with the moment Sirius brought him to their old home. He sent a venomous glare to Orion, but his father was staring at Rastaban, his facade slowly melting away only to be replaced by resignation and sadness.

“I believed I was doing the right thing,” Orion said softly, walking closer to the bed and sitting down next to Regulus despite the faintly glowing wand still trained at him. “He needs to learn restrain and Bauxbatons–”

“Just shut up, old man,” Sirius snarled from the doorway, only to appear in front of their father and yank him up by the front of his robes. “I want to rip you apart with my bare hands like a common animal and you have no idea how much it hurts not to do so.”

Even with their father partly hiding him from view, Regulus could see the terrifying expression that twisted his brother’s features into something barely human. And still, despite the disrespectful words and threatening posture, Orion did nothing to stop his elder son’s acid laced tirade. Unfortunately, it only seemed to fuel Sirius’ fury and if they hadn’t stood so close to Rastaban’s bed he would have probably punched their father or have done something worse.

A part of Regulus wanted to intervene and prevent his brother from doing something he would regret later, but if he wanted to be honest, Orion deserved every hateful word and so much more for what he had done. It didn’t matter that the whole castle echoed that piece of scum’s screeches and pleas for mercy, because avenging the crime against Regulus’ only child did not reverse the damage or the guilt Regulus felt for being too weak to stand up for his own ideas. 

Sirius was still cursing and raving, not letting go of their father, allowing Regulus the chance to take in the deathly pale skin and sunken cheeks of his child. He looked even smaller than usually, seemingly lost in the huge bed surrounded by a plethora of softly humming monitoring spells and the thrumming power that was purely Rastaban, and Regulus needed every bit of his self-control to stop himself from reaching out and touching the pulsating magic that caressed and protected Rastaban even though the boy was in a healing coma.

Regulus closed his eyes thinking about what could have happened if Aubrey Chaville – the youngest heir of the Chaville House, a lower class Light family that had professed their less than favourable opinion about the Blacks on several occasion – had just been a little older or had had above average affinity for magic. Although the fact that he had managed to keep Rastaban under Cruciatus for almost a full minute made Regulus question just how Light the Chaville Family was. True, Rastaban had written about the hatred Chaville seemingly held for him, but no one thought that the fourteen-year-old little shit would be foolish enough to cast an Unforgivable on anyone, especially not on the Heir of one of the most prominent pureblood families.

“Never again,” Regulus whispered gently stroking the curly mass that was his child’s hair. “You are going to show them, that no one can question your power and position, but not before the time is right,” he added with a grim smile, then turned back to his brother who finally let their father go. “Hire the best tutors for him, Sirius. I want the best for him, because obviously we can’t trust our father with Rastaban’s education anymore.”

He could see as Orion’s hands clenched into fists, but their father had always been a wise man who knew when to pick a fight and who was a True Black through and through. And maybe someday Regulus would be able to forgive his arrogance and stubbornness, but for now, the man had lost his privilege to have any say in his grandson’s upbringing.

Sirius closed the distance between them, crouching down and brushing a reassuring kiss against his lips. “As you wish, little brother,” he whispered, his thundery gaze full of tender affection. “He’s going to be alright.”

“He is strong and a Black, of course he is going to be alright,” Regulus agreed, offering a kiss of his own. “I’m here and not leaving him ever again.”

****

** 22 November 1999, Chateau de Black, Bretagne, France **

“Good morning, Rastaban, how have you been?” Rastaban raised his gaze from his lap, greeting the woman in the doorway with a swift nod.

“Fine.” His reply was curt as always, showing no more willingness to cooperate than before.

Rosemary Davis – Roger Davis’ Muggleborn mother who worked as a mind healer at St. Mungo’s – had been a seemingly permanent addition to the Black household ever since the incident back in March, because Rastaban’s papa and Uncle Sirius were worried about him, which, in Rastaban’s opinion, was entirely unfounded. He was fine and had learnt his lesson from the incident with Chaville and Villeneuve. Maybe he was acting even more reserved and sometimes seemed to be lost to the real world, but unlike what his Papa thought, he wasn’t reliving the horrors of pure, white agony. No, he was usually going over the symptoms of the Cruciatus curse itself, doing extensive research and pouring over even more books than usually, trying to come up with ways to either lessen the pain or turn it into something else entirely.

Unfortunately, so far he couldn’t come up with anything remotely useful aside from the realisation that the Unforgivables were called that for a reason. But he wouldn’t give up even if it meant that he had to endure Mrs. Davis’ invasive nagging and his family’s concerned glances, no matter how frustrated he was with them.

Mrs. Davis came by on every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and spent an hour and a half spouting of questions about Rastaban’s day, hobbies and most importantly thoughts, even going so far to ask about a possible crush on one of his new classmates which was utterly ridiculous and only had proven Rastaban’s theory about the woman’s ineptitude. A part of him wanted to ask his Papa to stop this nonsense, but he couldn’t very well tell Regulus or even Sirius about his project, because both of them tended to be way too overprotective, especially these days, and the therapy sessions were the perfect disguise to continue his work undisturbed.

He watched as Mrs. Davis took her usual place across from him with barely veiled disinterest. She took her notebook and a pencil out of her bag, offering a benign smile to Rastaban that didn’t sooth the young wizard at all.

“I thought maybe we could talk about your school work today,” she said causing Rastaban’s suspicion to rise even more. Green eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the pleasantly interested expression on the witch’s face, wondering what she could know only to be placated a moment later when she asked her first question. “How do you like primary school so far?”

Rastaban bit back a snarky retort and kept up his blank mask. “It’s useless and I’m surrounded by inept toddlers,” he replied coolly earning a downtrodden look from the mind healer.

“I’m sure they are not that bad,” Mrs. Davis tried again. “Have you made any friends so far? And what do you think about your classes?”

Rastaban only stared at the woman as if she had lost her mind. He didn’t mind Muggles and admired their aptitude for technology, science and medicine, but it didn’t mean he was going to start fraternizing with a bunch of blubbering imbeciles who couldn’t read or write.

Regrettably, he couldn’t very well tell this to the witch, which left him with the option of making up something that fit his current state of trauma induced antisocial behaviour. “I prefer my private tutors.”

Mrs. Davis let out a small sigh. “Rastaban, you need to start interacting with children your age. I can understand you feel more secure and balanced here, but it’s not a healthy way to live your life. Your father and uncle are concerned about your fear of initiating human contact.”

That was low even for her, but maybe he should have expected her to pull the family card at some point in an attempt to coerce him into something he had no desire to do. He thought about upping his stubbornness a notch or two, but it would only give her another reason to fill his Papa’s head with nonsense therefore making him worry even more.

He hated this situation and that his father still hadn’t forgiven his grandfather. Orion understood him and his need to improve himself without any outer intrusion, and in turn Rastaban understood his grandfather’s reasons for pushing him to his limits and weaving nefarious plans to secure the Blacks’ place in the Wizarding World. It didn’t mean he didn’t see his Papa’s point behind trying to bring him out of his shell, but Regulus’ good intentions only hindered Rastaban’s progress and didn’t help him in the least.

His Papa was guilt ridden and constantly tried to make up for not realising what was happening until it was too late. Rastaban could see the shadows that marred the charcoal eyes because Regulus was unable to prevent Chaville from using the Cruciatus and Orion from sending Rastaban to Bauxbatons. And Rastaban wanted nothing more than to reassure his Papa that it was alright and he was fine, but if there was one thing common between him and his father, then it was the endless stubbornness that prevented them from stopping until they fulfilled any promise they made.

Mrs. Davis cleared her throat, once again writing something in her notebook, pulling Rastaban out of his thoughts. “You seem occupied,” she said kindly, fishing for information.

“I was merely contemplating what you’ve said,” Rastaban lied, not breaking the eye contact, so he could easily see as surprised delight washed over the woman’s blandly pretty features.

“And what do you think?” she inquired eagerly, her smile too wide to be honest.

“Maybe you’re right,” he answered, inwardly cataloguing every change in her expression and enjoying the rush that came with the knowledge that he was playing her for the fool she was. “But at the same time, I don’t think I’m ready...” he trailed off, averting his gaze in shame.

“They can’t hurt you, Rastaban, and I’m sure all of your classmates would be delighted to become your friends.” Mrs. Davis smiled encouragingly, her hand reaching out to touch Rastaban, only to drop back into her lap when acidic green orbs flashed at her in warning.

Rastaban might have tolerated her and her ridiculous blabbering, but they were not close and he didn’t allow strangers to touch him so casually. She was getting paid both in galleons and in the enhancement of her reputation as she was slowly rising in the ranks amongst St. Mungo’s healers, which immediately made Rastaban wary of her and her attempts to earn his trust.

Well she could wait for that until the world ended, because there was no chance that Rastaban would confide in her. “Of course, they can’t hurt me, they are Muggles.” He frowned, keeping up the facade of the confused child. Mrs. Davis pressed her lips together at that, clearly affronted by the dismissal in Rastaban’s tone.

“Why don’t you try and find one friend first?” she suggested, obviously choosing to overlook his comment.

“One friend?” he asked, scrunching his nose in what he guessed was a disagreeing yet uncertain way. He didn’t add, “So they could betray me for their own gain or out of fear?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Davis nodded, her smile once again widening. “Someone to hang out and to have play dates with. Things normal children do all the time.”

Rastaban pursed his lips at her suggestion that he wasn’t normal. As if he had had time for such trivialities as play dates. He was busy enough with his curriculum, not to mention his new Potions tutor was a right slave driver, finding flaws even in the most precisely made concoctions. So maybe, Rastaban wasn’t a normal child, but unlike the mediocre, blubbering brats at his school and even at Bauxbatons, he had a much greater chance to become someone important without the help of his already influential family.

“I don’t have time for childish games,” he stated and was backed by a soft chime echoing through the house, signalling the arrival of his History tutor. “However, I will think about your suggestion,” he added when the witch opened her mouth to argue with him. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Davis. Have a good afternoon.”

Rastaban left the room with a small nod, his mind already concentrating on his upcoming lesson with Master Savon. Just like he had said mere minutes ago, he didn’t have time for childish games, and that included humouring overeager, but overall useless mind healers who thought they had him all figured out.

****

** 14 February 2002, Palazzio Academy of Foreign Nations, Firenze, Italy **

Rastaban looked at the girl in front of him and wondered what she could possibly want from him. He was aware that they shared classes, but if he wanted to be honest, aside from Max – a tall, awkward, auburn haired boy with a strangely enthusiastic attitude, who he saw as a somewhat amusing and valuable acquaintance – he almost never interacted with his peers. He raised an inquiring eyebrow that chased a hot blush to the nameless girl’s cheeks and caused him to narrow his eyes in suspicion. Was the Muggle nursing some kind of outlandish attraction for him?

“Yes?” he asked with detached politeness, getting bored with her disturbing staring.

She flushed even more, and quickly snuck a glance behind her back where her giggling and whispering friends stood watching the unfurling scene with avid interest. Rastaban bit back a less than gentlemanly comment and even refrained from rolling his eyes at the confirmation of his thoughts. He had never understood females and their incessant need for gathering in groups, imitating a bunch of crazy hyenas and pathetic dog bitches in heat without realising, but his Uncle Sirius only laughed and patted his head when he shared his disdain filled opinion with him.

The uncouth girl finally deigned her posturing finished and turned back to him, blinking rapidly and baring her teeth in an admittedly unattractive way before she opened her mouth and said, her English heavily accented, “I was thinking, maybe we should go out for milkshakes after school? My mum would be happy to drive us!” she added quickly before Rastaban could have replied.

Milkshakes? Why would he want to go and get milkshakes with an unknown girl? Not to mention his Papa would go berserk if he knew Rastaban got into a car that belonged to some unidentified woman. So the answer was obviously no, but with all the attention the little wench managed to draw to them he couldn’t just blow her off. No, this situation needed careful operation and a great amount of cunning.

“I’m honoured you thought of me,” he started, inwardly wincing at the brightening of her expression and the weird looks he was getting from his audience. It was not his fault he was surrounded by ill-mannered morons who had never heard of courtesy in their useless, empty little lives. “However, my schedule for after-school activities is already full and I have to decline your lovely offer.”

He didn’t add any of the degrading names that filled his mind, half-suspecting that the girl only wanted him because of his family’s wealth and obvious higher standing. He even offered a meaningless smile already knowing that the simpering girl would not cause a scene, and he was right.

“Oh... of course,” she murmured. “Of course, silly me! Another time? I know you’re busy because you’re a member of the fencing team and I haven’t said congratulations for your latest win, but I hoped that maybe we could go out sometimes?” she rambled turning redder and redder with each passing moment Rastaban spent in silence. “Of course you don’t have to–”

The young wizard wondered if every Muggle parent was as uncultured as this girl’s, because it was not enough that the girl was mundane and low-class enough to approach a boy and ask him out on a date, but she didn’t even had the common sense to introduce herself. He didn’t care that they’ve been classmates for months, aside from Max and some other cobble-brained morons who had attempted to bully him on his first day at the academy he didn’t know anyone.

She was still babbling when Rastaban focused his attention back on her, but this time he raised his hand to put an end to her meaningless words. “We’ll see,” he said simply and turned away before she could have started another nonsense marathon.

Big brown eyes blinked back at him from behind thick glasses as he sat down next to his only friend in the school, severely bitten lips twitching upwards as if Max was trying to suppress his snickers, and he probably was. “Should I give you a ten foot pole before you talk to Perelli next time?”

“Now you are being crass, Maximilan,” Rastaban deadpanned even though a hint of a smirk settled on his face.

“Well next time try to look less like you want to throw up and I’ll use more polite words,” the blond shrugged, playing with his sandwich. “You know Perelli is the prettiest girl in our class.”

“Even less reason for her to cheapen her assets.” Rastaban stated with a roll of his eyes as he picked up his fork to start on his neatly packed lunch. “If she continues on this way she is going to be practically worthless by the time she reaches her prime.”

“Man, I don’t think I can ever get used to the fact you speak like an ancient old geezer from a Shakespearian drama or something,” Max exclaimed softly and shook his head. “You really need to get out more.”

“Maybe if more men valued the same virtues I do, there would be fewer women who thought it was essential to act like a cheap whore to find a husband for themselves,” the black haired boy scoffed.

“Well to be honest, I still think that girls are icky and I don’t trust creatures that have the need to form packs and keep secrets from the world.” Max’s gaze shifted to the table where a group of giggling and whispering girls were seated, and Rastaban could understand his thoughts perfectly. “How can older boys put up with them, I’d never know. Hormones or not, chicks are iffy, period.”

Rastaban didn’t answer. He simply watched the children goofing around him, his encounter with that girl, Perelli, long forgotten. They casted him occasional sideway glances, their gazes assessing and full of childish calculation causing his skin to crawl and prick with the need to curse and lash out. Unfortunately he couldn’t do either of these things because he was posturing as a stuck up, spoiled Muggle child, but the need didn’t go away until the end of the day when his Papa finally arrived for him to take him home.

“How was your day?” Regulus asked softly, running his fingers through Rastaban’s somewhat dishevelled hair in a well-practiced manner. “You seem aggravated.”

“I’m fine, Papa,” the little boy answered and pecked the older man on his lips. “I’m just glad this day is finally over. These Muggle children are insufferable.”

Regulus let out an amused chuckle, shaking his head fondly. “Don’t be so harsh on them, my child, they are young and impressionable.”

Rastaban hummed, leaning against his Papa’s side contently. He felt all tension leave his body and enjoyed the soothing movements of the older man’s fingers in his hair. It had been months since he had started his Year 3 classes at a Muggle primary school, this time in Italy, joining children who had years to get used to each other and who saw him as an outsider in more ways than one. Yet, Rastaban understood that even if Muggles were beneath them, their knowledge in science and technology was actually superior to everything he could find in magical tomes. And a True Black always learnt from the best teachers, even if said teachers happened to be non-magical mundane people.

The majority of the Pureblood Society probably would have disagreed with his Papa’s decision to register him at a Muggle school, but unlike those arrogant, stuck up aristocrats, the Blacks were secure enough in their status and power to accept and take advantage of every opportunity to improve themselves. And Rastaban loved learning new things, even if the primary level courses were ridiculous and boring him to death. Unfortunately, his Papa was adamant on him attending school with his proper age group, still hoping he would form bonds with the children and live a little.

Rastaban looked at his father, basking in the silently offered warmth of unconditional love and he knew he could never deny the man anything, especially not after what Regulus had done for him.

 


	3. Part III. - Pure Friends

**__ **

**_ Part III. – Pure Friends _ **

****

** 28 February 2003, Black Manor, Atlanta, Georgia **

At the tender age of ten, Rastaban acted and spoke like an adult at least three times his age, and it was his way too reserved and mature personality that caused Regulus to take matters in his own hands. After a short discussion with his father and brother, he sent out invitations to the Malfoy, Zabini and the Nott families for a small tea party in hope to allow Rastaban attain new – and in Orion’s opinion – proper friends.

Naturally, his son had a different opinion altogether. “I’m not sure I understand what you expect from this gathering,” Rastaban commented mildly from his position across from Regulus who was seated behind his dark cherry wood desk, signing the invitations. “Everyone in this house knows what an awful conversationalist I am.”

“You don’t give enough credit to yourself,” Regulus chided softly as always. “You are a very charming young man.”

Rastaban levelled him with a disbelieving stare. “There is no need for sugar-coating the obvious, Papa. I don’t have friends for a reason, and it has nothing to do with being surrounded by Muggles basically every day.”

“You have friends–”

“I do not. I have a few acquaintances and another bunch of people who are constantly sucking up to me because I’m rich,” his child cut in with a sigh.

“Well the sons of these families are also rich _and_ magical,” Regulus reasoned, but Rastaban just pursed his lips and said nothing. “Not to mention young Draco is your cousin.”

“Who I haven’t met once since my Naming Ceremony.” Slight annoyance flashed through Rastaban’s features, but the emotion was gone in a matter of moments, leaving behind nothing but exasperated love. “I honestly love you, Papa,” he whispered, cattish green eyes shining with a rare show of tenderness as he circled the old desk and embraced his father. “Please, never change.”

Regulus closed his arms around the small form of his son and, not caring about being strong, buried his face in the soft skin of the boy’s neck, knowing that despite his best efforts there was no way to bring Rastaban’s lost childhood back.

“You’ll have a great time, I’m sure.” Neither of them knew who he was trying to convince, still Rastaban played along and nodded in agreement even though it was obvious that he didn’t believe him.

** 13 March 2003, Grimmauld Place, London, England **

Uncle Sirius rolled his eyes playfully as he took his place next to Rastaban’s grandfather. “I can’t wait to reunite with Cissy and her ferret-faced upstart little prick of an offspring,” he commented snidely and smirked at Orion wolfishly.

“Mind your manners, my child,” the elder Lord warned quietly, his pleasantly blank mask never slipping.

“I’ll be Properly Personalised, no need to worry, Father,” Sirius’ smile widened while his grey irises danced in mirth. “Wouldn’t dare to offend our dear cousin and her half-French brood for the world.”

Rastaban listened to their banter in silence as he tried his best to hide his unwanted nerves. It wasn’t like he hadn’t met wizards his age before; his brief and disastrous attendance to Bauxbatons Academy had proven to be an... interesting experience to say at least. Yet here he was barely able to stop himself from fidgeting like a naughty five-year-old who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He briefly wondered if this was a natural feeling for ordinary children before meeting new people. Probably, but then again, Rastaban was anything but ordinary.

Kreacher popped in, announcing the arrival of their first guests, causing Uncle Sirius to shut up and his Papa to squeeze his shoulder encouragingly. Rastaban offered a faint smile before turning back to the door to see as a family of three walked in, smiles of bright yet haughty emptiness adorning their faces. Rastaban watched as the blond man – Lord Malfoy, he reminded himself – bowed formally before proffering his right hand in a more familiar greeting.

“Lucius.” Orion’s bow was noticeably less deep which seemed to irk the younger man, even though a flicker of his lashes was the only sign of his annoyance. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you and your family in our home after so many years. I hope you’ve been well.”

“It has been way too long Lord Black, but I can assure you, the pleasure is all ours.” It was obvious even to Rastaban that the wizard was trying his best to suck up to his grandfather, probably to gain more support for his political campaign.

Orion didn’t bat a lash and smoothly steered the topic to Cousin Narcissa and then to the young boy standing slightly behind the Malfoy patriarch.

“This is our son, Draco,” Lucius made the introductions, his expression carrying a hint of smugness as he gently pushed the small sharp faced child forward. “I believe he is only a few months older than young Rastaban.”

Rastaban felt as his Papa’s fingers tightened on his shoulder at the small show of disrespect; Lucius shouldn’t have mentioned him in such familiar way before he had been introduced to the family, even if both Lucius and Narcissa attended his Naming Ceremony. He also noticed the quick glance Lady Malfoy sent her husband and decided then and there that the golden haired woman was the more sensible of the pair. But then again, she was a Black by birth and was raised as every Black should be raised.

“May I present my grandson, Rastaban Lycoris Black? It has been more than a decade since you’ve seen him after all,” Orion said, and Rastaban almost winced at the subtle frost that glazed his tone. “I presume your heir is raised by the Old Ways.”

Regulus’ hand twitched almost unnoticeably, showing a rare sign of nervousness. Rastaban wasn’t worried though; even if his grandfather used even more obvious insults, the Malfoys could do nothing but take them as Lucius had been the one to act with disrespect toward the Elder Lord of a more prestigious family. He understood that different Houses had different policies and rules, but there were unwritten laws every pureblood had to follow no matter their upbringing.

Rastaban saw as Lucius’ jaw clenched and nostrils flared, but the man had enough common sense to lower his gaze; obviously he didn’t want to challenge the infamous Orion Black. Rastaban had heard stories of his grandfather’s past duels and fighting skills, his Papa used to sit on his bed, stroking his hair and telling tales of the power his grandfather wielded. It was no surprise that the Malfoy Lord was sensible enough not to challenge the older wizard.

“Of course,” Narcissa replied with a soft almost apologetic smile, preventing her husband from putting his foot in his mouth once again. Her voice was musical and gently flowing like a graceful, regal river that commended respect without brutal force, suiting her perfectly. “His tutors speak highly of his magical aptitude and he is doing his best to improve himself.”

“Ambition and hard work, really nice treats in a young man,” Orion nodded in approval. “Maybe he and Rastaban will find something to talk about while we chat about the usual adult nonsense.”

Rastaban refrained from sighing as he caught the side-way glance his grandfather sent him. Of course he heard the order that had been hidden amongst the otherwise unimportant words; his grandfather wanted him not only to test the Malfoy heir but to secure some kind of connection with him – and probably the other two children – too.

Lady Malfoy offered another stunning smile and Orion stepped forward with a solemn expression on his face, stretching his right arm out to his niece who accepted the appendage with an approving nod, leaving her husband to trail after her as subtle punishment as she and Rastaban’s grandfather strode into the drawing room that had been prepared for the tea party.

The other guests arrived soon after they left, making their rounds of necessary niceties and empty chitchat.

Lady Zabini and her son Blaise were the first to walk through the foyer’s doors after the Malfoys, and it was glaringly obvious that the darkly beautiful woman had her sight set on the handsome and very much eligible Black brothers. Her dark cinnamon eyes shone with a strange, wild hunger that sent cold shivers down Rastaban’s spine, causing him to instinctively press closer to his Papa. Her son, on the other hand, only bowed stoically, his amber gaze alert and perceptive. He was almost a head taller than Rastaban with dark skin and a slim, slightly gangly body that was covered in the finest velvet robes.

Rastaban suspected that the Zabini Heir’s views were quite similar to his own. He was so unlike Draco who, even while remaining silent, radiated false confidence and tried to copy his father’s posture and facial expressions. Blaise nodded calmly and after his mother introduced him, he offered his hand first to Sirius then to Rastaban’s papa and Rastaban himself. He had impeccable manners, something Rastaban appreciated immensely especially after spending the majority of his time amongst crude and ill-mannered Muggle children.

He watched as his father escorted Lady Zabini and Blaise to the drawing room, leaving him alone with his fidgeting and clearly annoyed uncle to welcome the Nott brothers. “How are you doing so far?” he asked, pulling Rastaban close to his chest.

“I’m fine,” Rastaban replied calmly, earning a disbelieving snort that made him wince inwardly and thank the Black forefathers that his grandfather was already out of earshot. “I can’t afford failure,” he admitted in the end, a barely audible sigh escaping his lips. He leant against the hard stomach of his uncle, giving and seeking support at the same time.

“Failure, huh?” Uncle Sirius mused, gently squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. “You’ll be okay, Harry,” he said, breathing that long forgotten name against Rastaban’s hair. “You’re a Black, and a True Black can achieve whatever they want.”

The quiet confidence in the older man’s voice managed to calm Rastaban’s nerves somewhat and he even managed to quirk his lips upwards when the Notts appeared in the doorway.

Thaddeus, the older of the brothers, was distant with perfect manners, but his eyes were dark and haunted resembling of two black holes that devoured and compressed everything around him. He thanked Sirius for the invitation, placing his surprisingly long-fingered hand into Sirius’ much broader one and then blushed when Rastaban’s uncle held the contact longer than it was socially acceptable.

Rastaban’s eyes narrowed as theories of possible meanings behind the action flooded his mind all at once, but Thaddeus chose that moment to extract his hand from Sirius’ grip and introduce his little brother, Theodore, effectively pulling Rastaban out of his thoughts.

Theodore looked years older than him with gangly limbs, pale skin and sharp features that made his face look awkward and gave away his real age. Still, despite the somewhat rat-like and uninteresting face, Rastaban could tell that he was going to turn into a rather stunning man with given time. Not to mention with eyes as dark and beseeching as his, Rastaban had no doubt that the young Nott would have no trouble finding an acceptable bride for himself.

Theodore’s hand trembled violently as he accepted Sirius’ proffered handshake, and Rastaban couldn’t help but feel for the boy, knowing perfectly well how he was feeling. So as his uncle offered his elbow to Thaddeus, Rastaban did the same, smiling faintly when Theodore linked their arms shyly and ignoring the cheeky smirk Sirius sent their way moments before he led their little quartet through the white double doors the others disappeared behind.

The elves secluded a small lounge for them by the French windows, putting a respectful distance between the adults and the children. It let both parties have their privacy, but it also kept the children under the watchful gazes of their overprotective parents, Rastaban noted, amused by the slyness of his grandfather who had the perfect position to see everything that went down between Rastaban and his new acquaintances.

Draco and Blaise stood up the moment he and Theodore neared their corner, the position between the boys suggested a close relationship that had been going on for years. To the Black Heir’s analytical mind it meant possible conflicts for the future; both wizards would choose the other over him, and he couldn’t allow people who could never be 100% loyal to get close to him or his family.

Nonetheless, he managed to pull a polite parody of a smile and nodded to his guests, allowing them to take their places once again. Theodore chose the armchair closest to his seat as the chocolate eyes watched Malfoy and Zabini with hardly concealed distrust. Rastaban agreed with him, although he had more experience in hiding his feelings, therefore keeping up his facade of the perfect pureblood heir.

“I suggest we follow our parents’ example and have a small toast before the tea is served,” he said, breaking the silence smoothly. He smothered the nervous fluttering in his stomach and made sure his expression held a touch more warmth than he felt. “To this promising day and new friendships.” He raised his small flute of elven made sparkling cider, delivered by Kreacher, waiting for the others to follow suit.

“To new friendships,” they chorused nodding and smiling while three pairs of hawk-like eyes watched the Black Heir’s every breath.

“I heard from mother that you’re quite set in your academic improvement,” Blaise spoke up, his tone mildly interested.

“I wouldn’t be worthy of the Black name if I ignored the power of knowledge,” Rastaban replied jovially. “However, I don’t think I’m all that different from you. We are heirs of prominent pureblood families and it is our duty to enrich the name and prestige of our respective Houses.”

“I agree,” Draco stated. “For one, I find nothing more disgusting than when purebloods throw our traditions away just to grovel at the feet of pathetic and useless Muggles.”

“We’re living in an era that allows too much leeway to the tarnishers of our nation.” Blaise nodded, his golden eyes never leaving Rastaban’s face. “The Muggles are polluting our very core, stealing the magic of Earth therefore making us weaker forcing us to lose our very essence.”

Rastaban bit his lower lip, deep in thought. “Do you have any suggestion how we should stop the degradation of our culture?”

“Why not finish what the Dark Lord started and eliminate the Muggles?” Malfoy questioned, childish arrogance lacing his voice. “We are superior–”

“You are a fool if you believe that,” Theodore interrupted coolly.

“Are you one of those Muggle lovers?” the blond sneered, silvery irises flashing with a predatory light.

“You don’t need to be a blood traitor to have some functioning brain cells, Malfoy,” Theodore countered cuttingly.

“Are you suggesting that I’m stupid?” Pale hands balled into fists on Draco’s knees, but before he could have shot to his feet and do something unforgivable, Blaise grabbed his elbow and squeezed warningly.

“This is neither the place nor the time for petty bickering,” the dark skinned boy hissed.

“He called me stupid!”

“You sure are acting like a fool!”

“I have every right to–”

“Shut your mouth and start behaving like the heir of an ancient family you supposed to be.”

Blaise’s expression was unforgiving as he glared at his friend who, after yanking his arm out of the other’s hold, sat back properly and gritted out, “I apologise, Black. I hope I have not offended you with my brutish and improper attitude.”

“Apology accepted,” Rastaban nodded in acceptance. Inwardly he was already listing the up- and downsides of keeping Draco Malfoy close to him. The boy’s chances to become anyone important in his life were quickly diminishing. “Why don’t we change the subject? I admit it was not the best choice for a first time meeting such as ours. However, I heard you are going to Roxfort next year and I’m quite curious what you think and heard about the school.”

“Yes, we are,” Blaise agreed immediately and despite his earlier thoughts Rastaban decided that with his charming yet commanding nature he could become a great asset to the Black family. “I assume you will join us...”

Rastaban smiled enigmatically. “Actually, no. Papa decided I should continue my studies with a selected group of private tutors.” He didn’t tell them about his Muggle schooling; he had learned his lesson about trust the hard way after Marcel Villeneuve – he still couldn’t believe that the shy, sweet looking boy was able to deceive him and make him believe they were actually friends – and the whole disaster with Aubrey Chaville at Bauxbatons.

“My father wants me to go to Durmstrang,” Malfoy bragged. “He and Headmaster Karkaroff are close friends, not to mention there are less ridiculous restrictions against the Dark Arts.”

“I take you prefer the darker side of the Arts?”

“Don’t we all? Only the weak stick strictly to Light spells.” Theodore’s lips thinned dramatically next to Rastaban, but the auburn haired boy refrained from saying whatever was on the tip of his tongue.

“That’s an interesting ideology,” Rastaban hummed, humouring the Malfoy Heir. “You must be really bored with your current studies then.”

Blaise twitched at the barb, but Draco only smirked, unaware of the sarcasm hidden behind Rastaban’s words. “Mostly, but I managed to coerce my tutor into teaching me a few neat tricks and there are always potions. Having a Potions Master as your godfather has its perks.”

“I see.” Rastaban sipped his freshly served cup of tea while he discretely looked at the adult group. The indulgent, flashy smiles and amused chuckles seemed way too calculated and plastic to be honest; it was clear that everyone in the room thought that they were in charge, toying with the others effortlessly. In reality, it was his grandfather who was playing the guests like a virtuoso played his favourite violin, his sharp grey eyes storing every little nuance and gesture away for later analysis and life altering decisions.

The conversation was flowing smoothly unlike theirs and Rastaban guessed it was time to change the topic once again. “Well, from what I heard, at Durmstrang you don’t have to wait until your second year to try out for the Quiddich team,” he said with a sly little smirk playing on his lips. “Should I ask Papa to arrange a game in the very near future?”

“That is a great idea!” Blaise agreed.

“There are only four of us,” Draco argued, his fair brows knitted together. “I guess I could ask Crabbe and Goyle to join us, sure they’re brainless, but should be able to hit the Bludgers without problem.”

“I don’t play Quiddich,” Theodore said, averting his gaze even while he kept his chin high as if he was daring any of them to say something.

“Oh.” Rastaban frowned in thought, trying to figure out what he should do to prevent the conversation from dying. “To tell the truth, I prefer fencing myself,” he admitted in the end earning a strange look from Malfoy and an inquiringly quirked eyebrow from Blaise, while Theodore simply offered a faint half-smile.

“Fencing? Uncle Regulus allows you to wield a sword?” Draco asked, sounding disbelieving and not a little envious.

“Of course, I’ve been practicing for the last three years,” Rastaban answered with an elegant shrug. “I need to keep my body fit and my reflexes fast, because according my tutor, a strong body and constant awareness are essential for duelling.”

“My brother said the same thing,” Theodore nodded. “Although he refused to allow me anywhere near to a sword until my thirteenth birthday,” he added in a somewhat bitter tone.

“Mother refuses to have me taught something as barbaric as fencing,” Draco sneered in disdain, but the anger and jealousy in his silvery grey eyes betrayed his words. “And Blaise won’t learn either.”

The dark skinned boy sent his friend a harsh glare, but nodded in agreement. “I’m not much of a fighter,” he said with a light smile. “Well not when it comes to physical fights.”

“Ah yes, Uncle Sirius mentioned that your mother told him you’re more of a debater, talking circles around her Law Wizards without an effort,” Rastaban said mildly, noting the dark reddish spots that adorned Blaise’s cheekbones at the mention of his mother over-sharing information about him.

“I have told her several times to fire those fumbling numbskulls.” To his credit Blaise managed to keep his cool in spite of his obvious embarrassment. “It’s no feat at all to find flaws in anything they say.”

“Oh, stop being so disgustingly humble, Zabini,” Draco cut in with a scoff. “We both know that you’re brilliant and Father is already planning to offer you an internship with him after your graduation from Hogwarts.”

Rastaban watched as Blaise’s eyes widened in shock as he turned to stare at his friend. It wasn’t hard to figure out he had known nothing of Lord Malfoy’s plans up till that moment, but was pleased under the heavy layer of astonishment nonetheless. This new snippet of information gave Rastaban some ideas about how he could use the Zabini Heir’s talent for the Black Family’s gain, and made a mental note to talk with his uncle about it later. After all, it was Uncle Sirius who kept in touch with Lucius Malfoy. While Rastaban didn’t have a very positive first impression of the man, it was a well-known fact that Lucius was an exceptionally skilled and influential figure in the political world.

He turned to look at the blond wizard who was currently chatting with Rastaban’s father, taking in the strange gentleness those luminous silver irises carried as Lucius held Regulus’ gaze. It was so different from the haughty void he had seen earlier, and Rastaban had to admit it interested him, making him want to find out more about his papa and Lord Malfoy’s relationship.

But it had to wait until later because he had three expectant guests waiting for him to share his plans for the future. “As Blaise have said, I’m quite set on my academic improvement, and I don’t want to miss any opportunity to widen my horizons,” he replied evasively, not trusting either one of them to share any personal information about himself.

“You’re no fun, Black,” Draco sneered, although with jutting out his lower lip they way he did, it looked like more of a pout than a sneer. “I, for one, am going to follow my father’s steps, of course. Father has the necessary connections and at my birthday party I’m going to be introduced to the Society.” Rastaban did not furrow his eyebrows in disapproval at the blatant gloating, but he exchanged a quick glance with Theodore and he also saw Blaise purse his lips in annoyance.

Draco Malfoy really needed a reality check, if he believed becoming a politician, especially a successful one, was that easy. He had no idea what Lucius Malfoy was playing at, but Rastaban doubted his grandfather or uncle approved of his plans about introducing his eleven-year-old son to the Society, especially when said son continued acting like a spoiled brat.

And apparently was incapable of noticing when his prattling was unappreciated. “Of course you are invited, Black and you too Blaise,” he went on, blatantly insulting Theodore by leaving his name out.

It was this show of absolute disrespect that caused Rastaban’s patience to snap, and before Blaise, who also looked completely outraged, could have opened his mouth to berate his best friend, he spoke up, using his coldest tone. “Really now? Well, here are some interesting news for you Cousin Draco; I don’t associate myself with low-class, ill-mannered imbeciles who believe the world revolve around their pitiful lives.”

“Are you implying I’m one of these people?” Malfoy hissed, his face turning into an interesting shade of red in his rage and humiliation.

“Good, at least plain dumb is not amongst your lesser qualities.” Rastaban smiled benignly at the blond, his eyes wide, fake innocence and rightful scorn mixing in the green depths.

“How–”

“How dare I? The question is more like, how dare you? You might be secure in your father’s connections and influence that brought prestige to your family, but let me remind you that both Theodore and I are offspring of older and nobler families. So you would do well to remember not to insult him and through him me in the future.” By the end of his speech his words barely carried human syllables, causing the other three children’s eyes to widen in surprise and fear.

“You’re a Parselmouth,” Theodore whispered to himself, still Rastaban heard.

His head turned in the gangly boy’s direction and he lifted a curious eyebrow. “A Parselmouth?”

Wary dark brown gaze met his own almost glowing green one as the Nott Heir slowly nodded in assent. “Just now, you spoke in Parseltongue.”

A heavy and tension filled silence fell over the room after the revelation. The adults turned to them all at once, their expressions varying from calculating and worried to resigned and blank. Rastaban himself was desperately seeking his father’s gaze, inwardly restless and confused about what this new development could mean and how they would solve it. However, Regulus was glaring harshly at his own father, his jaw set firmly as if he knew what the older wizard was thinking.

Lucius Malfoy stroked his lower lip with his index finger, his eyes never leaving Rastaban’s slight form even though it was evident he was lost in his thoughts. The look in the man’s gaze frightened the young Black Heir, yet somehow it also excited him in ways he had never experienced before. It felt like Lord Malfoy had ensnared his senses, drawing his attention no matter how much he wanted to focus on his father, and Rastaban didn’t have enough power to break the connection between them.

He was aware that his slip up could cause serious problems; neither of the attending wizards and witches were daft enough not to realise that the last wizard who had the ability to speak the Snake Language was Lord Voldemort – the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin according to _The_ _Complete Inheritance Book of the House of Black_ that contained the family threes and some essential information of every prominent pureblood family of Wizarding Europe.

Rastaban’s nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms as he tried to squelch the urge to brush his hair in front of his heavily glamoured scar that, while had fainted in the past nine years, was still prominent enough to stir unwanted questions. Questions only brought complications, especially when the hidden secrets were as severe as his. Of course neither his father nor his grandfather knew he found out the truth about his real identity, but their ignorance only made him more determined to keep the story of Harry Potter to himself until the time was right.

No one could know, and if it was up to him, no one would, not even Lucius Malfoy whose expression projected raw hunger and pleasure of a new conquest. Rastaban’s lips twitched upward as he finally found the willpower to look away and to break the silence.

“Being compared to Salazar Slytherin is the biggest compliment I’ve ever received from someone,” he said genially, drawing surprised chuckles from the others. “However, I’m sure, that while I might have acted out of order every one of my words was perfectly understandable. Or am I wrong?” He rested his eyes on Theodore who paled dramatically alongside with Draco and Blaise.

He felt his magic practically swirling around them in seductive waves, caressing and teasing the children and even some of the adults, earning soft gasps from his victims. Draco licked his lips and within moments his breath turned laboured, however, it wasn’t enough to prevent him from trying to speak.

“You hissed,” he gasped, grey irises glazed with the result of magical overload. “I heard the words...” Blaise grabbed his hand, though Rastaban wasn’t sure if he wanted to silence or support the blond with the gesture.

“Malfoy is right,” Theodore said in a hushed tone, and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Still Rastaban saw how much his hands trembled. “I heard and understood the words too... but they felt... strange.”

“I was angry, because Draco’s disrespect towards you,” Rastaban defended his actions, causing the magic in the air to thicken even more. “I would be honoured to wield the ability of one of the greatest wizards of our history, unfortunately, as we all know, the Blacks are not descendants of the Slytherin family.” His lips felt like parchment and he had to wet them to be able to continue.

For a second, he locked his eyes with his uncle, who was one of the few people unaffected by the tantalizing power Rastaban was emitting half-subconsciously, and Sirius nodded in understanding and consent. Rastaban closed his eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to let his magic settle down at the same time.

After years of practice, it wasn’t all that hard anymore, but he it still took a few minutes before all traces of magic evaporated from the air, but the after effects still hit their guests pretty hard. However, if the looks on their faces was anything to go by, they believed his little tale and by the time they left, they would forget they had any suspicions about Rastaban being anything but a normal pure blooded wizard. Well if Uncle Sirius played his cards right, that is.

 “I’m afraid the whole uproar is entirely my fault,” the older Black wizard admitted with a sheepish grin earning dubious yet hazy looks from the other guests. “You all know my love for playing childish pranks and I’m not ashamed to admit I was blatantly eavesdropping on the kiddies’ argument...”

“You didn’t.” Regulus was the first to understand the meaning behind his brother’s words and Rastaban could see when the first flames of fury fuelled fire in his papa’s charcoal eyes, chasing away even the barest hint of confusion.

“Little brother, you have to admit, it was fun to watch how they all paled and became panicky,” Sirius goaded, his grin widening until it was almost slitting his face in two.

“Just what are you talking about, Black?” Lord Malfoy asked, sounding slightly disoriented.

“I cast a tiny little spell on our sweet Rastaban.” Sirius answered and had the gall to wink at the older man, infuriating the blond.

“So this whole debacle is Lord Black’s fault?” Lady Zabini questioned, looking put out.

Orion shot a scathing glare in his son’s direction before he turned back to the beautiful and no less dangerous witch with a placating half-smile. “You have to forgive my daft child, Lady Zabini,” he said, his voice deep and velvety like the smoothest and darkest of chocolates. “He always had a playful heart.”

“Well, maybe I can appreciate his sneakiness if nothing else,” she sniffed. “But then again nowadays, he is called the Snake in Lion’s Clothes.”

Rastaban saw the way she devoured his uncle with her eyes and couldn’t contain a small shudder at the sight. She was one hell of a dangerous woman, one he would never allow anywhere near his family. He heard a few chuckles and Aunt Narcissa took it upon herself to tell a few amusing stories about their time at Hogwarts, dissolving the tension within minutes.

“I see the error in my actions.” It was Draco’s quiet, sulky words that drew Rastaban’s attention back to his own guests who still looked a bit dazed. “Nevertheless, may I hope to see all three of you amongst the guests at my birthday party?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Rastaban responded causing the blond boy’s face to fall in disappointment. “However, even if my father decides not to attend your ball, I will make sure to wish you a happy birthday in person,” he added, making amends to what Draco nodded and after another moment looked at Theodore.

“It depends on Thaddeus, but I’ll try to be there,” he said in a solemn tone.

“And you know I would never miss your eleventh birthday party for the world,” Blaise cut in before the Malfoy Heir could have opened his mouth to ask him the same question.

The smile that adorned Draco’s face was not less surprising than seeing his father looking tenderly at Rastaban’s papa because out of sudden the sharp, pointy features softened and became almost radiant, making Rastaban realise that being happy suited his cousin. And while it didn’t change his mind about Draco’s bratty attitude, it helped him to see through the boy’s badly crafted mask.

He would not confide in the blonde anytime soon, but with given time and the right upbringing, he could see Draco as a great asset to the Black Family. He smiled softly at the boy and carried on with the conversation about Aunt Narcissa’s plans for the party, happy to discuss a topic that couldn’t turn into something horrible. Not to mention, a Malfoy loved nothing more than talking about himself, or so Blaise had told Rastaban when he and his mother were taking their leave.


	4. Part IV. - Berry Invasion

**_ Part IV. – Berry Invasion _ **

****

**1 May 2003, Ravenshall Wood, Scotland **

It was the night of the Great Sabbath and Regulus was running the ancient trees. His heart was weightless with pulsating excitement and apprehension; the Chase was on and he had to get away from his pursuer. Heavy puffs of air were leaving his lungs in quick gasps only to be concealed by the inviting embrace of the night. A breathy laugh escaped his lips as lush grass tickled his naked feet and a playful breeze snuck through his thin white robes.

The air was heavy with unfiltered wild magic, the seductive power whispering and enticing his senses till he felt beyond intoxicated. There were no strict rules and pompous posturing; he was driven by pure instincts and power. At that moment he was nothing more than an eager and gracious son of Mother Magic. He was nameless and free of responsibilities, already drunk on fine mead and the thrum of magic.

Another soft laugh echoed amongst the trees, causing Regulus’ whole body and soul to resonate with the sound before a flash of silver silk floated before his very eyes, caressing and ensnaring him out of nowhere. Strong arms encircled his waist just as Regulus crashed into the hard body of his capturer, sending both of them to the cool ground and tearing a disbelieving sound from his throat.

For a second, magic hummed even more soundly than before, but the moment was broken when Regulus’ charcoal gaze landed on the luxurious feather covered mask that hid the other wizard’s face from him. The man’s pale lips were pulled into a triumphant smile while his silver eyes glowed in the dark, rendering Regulus speechless.

“Do you yield?” the man asked, his velvety voice barely louder than a pleased purr.

Strong fingers shackled Regulus’ wrists to the ground while powerful hips ground down, robbing him of a desperately treasured moan. He could feel the other wizard’s hardness, its heat matching the one that was radiating from Regulus’ groin and promising dark but oh so delicious things to come, and it would have been so easy to give up and give in...

“You wish,” Regulus hissed, eyes narrowed and defiant despite the searing need that was coursing through his veins and making his cock throb.

His hips jerked upwards in answer to his opponent’s challenge, enjoying the sight of the suddenly clenched jaw and pursed lips. “We’ll see,” came the slightly strained reply and the man tightened his grip on Regulus’ wrists.

Silver clashed with charcoal, power sizzling between them with erroneous force before thin lips crashed against his in a feral kiss. There was nothing romantic or gentle about it; teeth collided with teeth as they bit and tasted without restrain; both of them fighting for dominance and refusing to lose.

Someone groaned, and Regulus suspected it had to be him because only a moment later a demanding tongue entered his mouth to explore and punish his very core. However, Regulus was still not ready to submit to the man above him. He raised his hips once more and repeated the motion again and again, playing dirty and wanting even more. His fingers sank into the other wizard’s white blond hair and he tugged the rich tresses mercilessly, earning a ferocious growl and a ruthless thrust from his opponent.

“You’re going to pay for that,” the man snarled into his mouth only to rear back when Regulus bit down harshly on the pink lower lip above him.

“You were saying?” Regulus taunted, basking in the breathless pleasure and whirling power that was seeping through his pores.

White teeth flashed in warning before they tore into Regulus neck destroying his moment of joy. Pain and pleasure shot down his spine, forcing his back to arch and his head to snap back while a loud and equally mortifying moan left his lips. Another bite was added to the first one, this time his collar bone was the target, and at the same time a talented and cruel hand curled around his aching need, pulling and stroking through the fabric of his white robe.

Regulus’ own fingers dug into damp soil as he writhed beneath the ravenous man who was marking him and unconsciously feeding the hungry magic around them. Regulus could feel the magic’s pulsating need that echoed in his bones and throbbed in his blood, and his hips rose on their own accord while his legs parted without his consent, silently inviting the man and losing the battle for dominance all at once.

His mind was slowly slipping into a delirious haze leaving him powerless and entirely at the other wizard’s mercy. He couldn’t think anymore, reaching up near blindly to drag that merciless mouth onto his, drinking and seeking the invisible power only this man could offer him. He moaned into the kiss, his body nothing more than a burning mass of nerves, but it wasn’t enough... never enough. Nothing mattered as he tore into the fine material of the other’s robe, revealing unblemished moonlit skin that was goading him coyly, wanting to be marked and painted angry red.

The man groaned unabashedly, his strokes becoming more heated and urging, driving Regulus crazy, because it was just not enough.

“Damn it all,” Regulus panted and tried his best to will the barriers of mocking purity away, dipping his hand into the humming dark pulse around them in hope to turn the white linen of their robes into silken liquid.

The magic answered his barely conscious command, and suddenly Regulus was surrounded by the gentle temptation of floating silk, his vision overloaded by the beauty of the wizard crouched above him. The mere sight of his lover left him breathless, yet attempted to bring reality back, something Regulus refused to allow to happen. The night and magic protected and hid them from the ugly claws of reality, letting him and the other man enjoy the passion Mother Magic granted him for this one single night.

Regulus closed his eyes in ecstasy as his lover’s overheated shaft slid against his own need, feeding the fire building in the lower pit of his stomach. His hands reached up on their own accord, nails digging into the hard panes of moonlit muscles, smearing and bruising them with dirt. His actions earned him a low pitched growl and hard punishing nips on the side of his neck, but Regulus couldn’t care about possible marks and bruises because at that exact moment a long, wet finger touched his entrance and sent nerve-racking electricity through his body.

Regulus’ mouth opened, yet no sound came as the air got stuck in his throat, choking him. He tried to gasp or maybe beg for more, but his lover knew no mercy and continued to tease him. His finger circled and caressed the tight muscles of his anus, sometimes dipping in only to leave again and slid up to play with his perineum. It was pure, unadulterated torture of the best kind, and in any other situation Regulus would have been mortified by the sounds and the broken words that left his mouth.

However, instead of trying to get away or contain himself, he spread his legs even wider, and offered everything he got. “Please...” he gasped desperately, forcing his gaze to meet with the glowing mercury orbs above him. “I... I’m... burning...”

And he was. His blood and nerves were burning him alive with the power of darkness, slowly destroying his mind and will. His lover smiled a snake-like smile; all arrogance and bravado, but his heavy pants and the beads of sweat rolling down his shoulders and chest told another tale altogether.

Silver eyes shone with the light of Mother Moon as the man devoured Regulus’ mouth once again and finally sank that taunting finger into the Regulus’ waiting passage, slowly stretching him and showing him that the Chase was over. 

Regulus moaned, scratching his lover’s back, but never breaking eye contact. He breathed gaspy, open-mouthed kisses against the other wizard’s lips, never lingering for more than a second and fluttering away before his lover could have reacted. His hips rose and lowered repeatedly, seeking contact to sooth his aching need, but there was nothing as the man above him rose onto his knees and away from him.

The finger inside him found his prostate, stroking the little gland once, twice and stealing an obscene moan from Regulus’ lips. Flashing spots danced before his eyes, blinding him for endless seconds and making the burn of the invasion of another finger go unnoticed. He squirmed and lifted his head to kiss his lover only to be pushed back with a low hiss as his only warning.

Regulus wanted to protest, to fight, yet before he could force his mind to even start forming coherent thoughts, his lover’s free hand curled around Regulus’ twitching hardness and squeezed. “Silence,” the man whispered huskily, and Regulus could do nothing but obey the magic infused command that grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head by an invisible force. “Good... Very good...”

The man went back to his ministrations, his movements precise and maddening, touching and rousing Regulus’ core until he could see nothing more than swirling colours that centred in a pair of bottomless silver wells. He didn’t know when the third finger entered him or registered the pain that shot up his spine before it was drowned by the impossible sensation of a foreign yet way too familiar magic seeping into his core, irrevocably marking his magic and heart.

Through the pleasure and suffocating tendrils of power, Regulus tried to protest, fear bubbling up in his soul, but he hadn’t got the chance to utter even sound because his lover finally had enough of teasing and playing and replaced his fingers with his steel-like length, slamming into Regulus with one powerful thrust and making the world explode around Regulus’ shattered and forever lost heart.

Rationality disappeared and left behind nothing but animalistic grunts and screams as their bodies moved and chased the intoxicating curls of dark magic that only the True Sons of Mother Magic could experience and was long lost to the foolish and traitorous Light wizards. The smell of pleasure and lust mixed with the earthy scent of the ancient forest, heightening Regulus’ desire for completion despite all the impending consequences that were sure to crash around them in the aftermath.

His lover’s thrusts sped up and he tried to follow, but the rhythm became distorted, telling him they were both close... so close...

A haunting scream filled the otherwise still air and was followed by an almost terrifying roar as they finally reached fulfilment, their essence readily offered as sacrifice to the Great Mother before they were whisked away by the impending silence and blackness of oblivion.

**[Noble Trouble]**

Regulus could still feel the low thrum of magic in his veins when he regained his consciousness. He felt warm and safe in the cocoon of the floating silk bedding and the strong arms of his lover. The scent of sex and almonds filled his nose, causing him to reflexively bury his nose into the soft tresses of the man who was sprawled over his body, still asleep.

He refused to open his eyes, already knowing what he would see. He was far from ready to face the reality of what had happened, silently cursing his weakness and inability to fight the allure of those silver eyes and enthralling presence. He only had himself to blame for falling into the other wizard’s trap, but it didn’t change the fact that he wanted nothing more than to hate his lover for playing upon his momentary lapse of judgement and preying on that pathetic strand of hope that made him agree to come and join the Chase.

A derisive sneer curled Regulus’ lips as his core pulsed, silvery black strands of another person’s magic flashing behind his closed lids. He was marked for eternity, marked by a man who would never be his, who would never keep the promises he made... He was marked by the husband of his own cousin and could do nothing but accept the fact that he would have to spend the rest of his life alone and cursed by his pathetic infatuation and stupidity.

His body tensed as the other wizard started to come around and stifled a broken moan as his now softened shaft slipped out of him. Unfortunately the hitch of his breath alerted his lover and before he could realise what was happening thin lips brushed against his slightly parted ones, breathing four seemingly insignificant little words into his mouth, making his pounding heart stop.

“My beautiful Raven King.” Regulus’ eyes snapped open in outrage, yet instead of lashing out like he yearned to, he simply stared at the still hidden face of his lover; his lips pressed into a painfully thin line.

“Don’t,” he gritted out through his clenched teeth, drawing satisfaction from the slightly taken aback look in the other’s silver eyes. “Lucius... Just don’t.”

Lucius’ jaw clenched and his gaze hardened, the only signs of his anger. “You’re _mine_ , Raven. Mine and you can do nothing to change that,” he purred, grabbing Regulus chin and stroking his thumb over the scratchy stubbles of his jaw.

“That might be,” Regulus shot back in his best mocking tone despite the hollow feeling that was rapidly spreading over his heart, “but _you_ can’t change the fact that you’re bound to another _woman_.”

“It’s a mere contract,” Lucius argued, sounding frustrated yet surprisingly tender. “Words formed by my father that mean nothing. Nothing compared to–”

“Please do us a favour and stop lying,” Regulus cut in. “What you’ve done to me means absolutely _nothing_ , because you have a wife and you’re bound to her by the Magic of the Black House.”

“Don’t say that,” Lucius hissed, all trace of gentleness gone from his tone as his eyes flashed wildly. “You’re mine! I marked you as mine for eternity!” He wasn’t yelling, he didn’t even raise his voice, but he still somehow managed to make every word as painful as a crack of a whip.

“Don’t I know it?” Regulus hated himself for sounding so bitter and resigned. “I can feel your very essence, Lucius. The silver and black of your magic is embedded into my very core, showing your ownership,” he spat, causing a smug smirk to bloom on Lucius’ lips. “You own my heart, Lucius Malfoy,” he continued watching as that hateful smirk widened, “but it means nothing because I have no claim over you.”

Regulus saw as Lucius opened his mouth to answer and probably disagree, but he was already pushing the other man away from him not at all interested in anything Lucius could say. It wouldn’t change the fact he still had nothing bar the disturbing feeling of being eaten away by growing emptiness.

Lucius hand tightened on his jaw and in his hair in an attempt to make him stay, unfortunately, Regulus just didn’t care anymore and in a surge of brashness – so unlike him – he let his control go, sending tendrils of shock through his lover’s body until Lucius let him go and backed away from him.

“I hope you’re satisfied, Lucius, you got what you wanted after all.” Were his parting words as he gathered his sizzling magic around himself and apparated away, unconcerned by his nakedness.

**12 August 2003, Black Manor, Atlanta, Georgia **

Rastaban knew that pressing his ear against the door of his papa’s office with Uncle Sirius plastered against his back was unbecoming of a member – not to mention the heir – of the Black House, but his papa and grandfather were verbally ripping each other to shreds and it was not something he wanted to miss.

Even though they had reconciled somewhat in the last few years, it was still obvious that his father hadn’t forgiven Orion for sending Rastaban off to Bauxbatons. A part of Rastaban could understand his papa’s reasons of course. Entrusting your only child safety to a bunch of strangers only to have him tortured and nearly killed was not something anyone could easily forgive. However, unlike Regulus, Rastaban could also see the reasons behind his grandfather’s decision.

Bauxbatons was one of the most prestigious and ancient magical academies in Europe, and to have the chance to soak in all the age old magic and knowledge that swirled amongst the walls of the great palace was irrefutable. Orion had seen this and thought that it would help Rastaban to get a better grip on his bursting powers that started to cause more and more problems and accidents despite all the studying Rastaban had done.

And he was right. During his short stay at the academy, Rastaban’s professors did their best to teach him control and the true meaning of having unlimited power. The professors challenged him and always expected more, never satisfied with anything Rastaban gave them. They had taught him how to centre his mind and how to ensnare other’s senses. They showed him the way to create life and the dangers of being almost godlike. They were ruthless but never unreasonable, and if Rastaban wanted to be honest, it was thanks to his professors that his mind hadn’t snapped under the Cruciatus curse.

Still, in spite of the immense progress Rastaban had made, his father refused to let him anywhere near the great palace or France again. They moved a lot during the last four years, staying in towns and cities that were practically humming with the resonance of magic, but if what Regulus had said was true, things were about to change.

“– reason, my child, one article in an _American_ paper will not destroy what we’ve built,” Orion said evenly, but Rastaban could hear the agitation seeping into his tone.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Rastaban’s papa ground out, sounding strangely anxious and restless. “Lima is the perfect place to hide and there is still enough magic to go unnoticed by the press and the Government.”

“We don’t need to go unnoticed by anyone. We are Blacks–”

“Don’t make me laugh, Father!” Rastaban shot an incredulous glance at his uncle who didn’t seem to be shocked by the open hostility his brother was showing towards their father. “We might be talking about only the American press at the moment, but in your opinion, how long will it take the British press to get a hold of this story?”

“What are they talking about?” Rastaban whispered, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

Sirius shrugged behind him, his strong shoulders moving like an avalanche against Rastaban’s back. “I’ve been in London until an hour ago,” he commented idly, but one his velvet covered arms snuck around Rastaban’s stomach, pulling him even closer to the older wizard’s chest. “But I have a feeling Reg has a good reason for wanting to move to this mysterious Lima place.”

Rastaban hummed distractedly. His grandfather was saying something, but his voice was too quiet for them to hear, and neither he nor Sirius was foolish enough to risk a stronger listening spell on the door.

“Papa has been acting strange since the Great Sabbath,” he said softly, not at all surprised when he felt his uncle’s body tense. “So you’ve noticed it too.”

“He doesn’t talk about it, but I know that something happened,” Sirius replied, aggravation colouring his tone. “I should have been there–”

“You are a powerful wizard, Uncle, but not powerful enough to resist the Call,” Rastaban interrupted the older wizard and repressed the urge to roll his eyes when Sirius choked on thin air. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised you were able to stop yourself from claiming Lord Nott. No one expected you to look out for your brother too.”

“How the–? Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Sirius groaned and hid his face in Rastaban’s hair.

“I felt the Mother’s Call, too, you know,” Rastaban offered, remembering the tantalizing feeling of raw dark magic caressing his bare skin as he lay in his bed feverish and moaning in burning fear and excitement, locked away from the world. The Great Mother whispered in his ear, sharing ancient secrets and sweet nothings with him, and it was an incredible and indescribable sensation, one he knew would only increase as the years passed.

“What?” his uncle sputtered and nearly cracked his ribs in his haste to tighten his embrace even more. “But you’re too young! You shouldn’t...”

“You know that if the Mother calls, you can do nothing but answer,” Rastaban sighed, leaning his head against his uncle’s hunched shoulder.

“But–”

“No, it’s not alright!” Sirius was interrupted by his father’s furious yell. “Your foolishness ends here and now, Regulus! I’ve waited months for you to solve this mysterious problem of yours, but I’ve had enough!”

“There is nothing to solve, Father,” Regulus retorted, but the bitterness in his voice was evident even through the closed door. “There is nothing going on and I’m perfectly fine. I’ve already chosen a house in Lima as well as signed Rastaban’s transfer papers. It’s your decision if you choose to join us, but I will not change my mind. And now if you excuse me, I have some errands to run.”

Rastaban’s eyes widened just as his uncle groaned, “We’re dead.”

“Shh!” Rastaban hissed, quickly pushing Sirius off his back and against the wall.

He couldn’t touch the wards without alerting his papa, just like he couldn’t use his own magic without doing the same ever since they refused the invitation to Hogwarts and registered him as a homeschooled student. These rules, however, didn’t apply to his uncle. Silently apologising for what he was about to do, he unbuttoned the top three buttons of Sirius’s shirt and placed his palm over the older man’s heart, ignoring the strangled gasp that wafted over his ear.

“W-what are you doing? Harry!” Sirius stammered in wide-eyed shock.

“Making sure, no one catches us red handed,” Rastaban bit out, allowing his senses to attune to his uncle’s racing heartbeat.

He only tried this trick a couple of times with one of his professors back at Bauxbatons and only succeeded once, but if his theories were correct then finding connection with someone from one’s family should be much easier. Except, the connection was not there and instead of the rush of strongly pulsating power he only got a weak whisper and a reluctant twitch in his direction. It was a disheartening feeling, but nothing compared to the turmoil he felt over the confirmation of the suspicion he had been carrying for years.

He was not born as Rastaban Lycoris Black, but as Harry James Potter.

It wasn’t a surprise per se, but the pang of being lied to for all his life was still there and maybe his eyes expressed his disappointment as he raised his head to look his uncle in the eye, because Sirius blanched and opened his mouth to voice his concern. However, before he could have uttered a word, the door of the office was thrown open and Regulus stalked out of the room with a thunderous expression that only darkened even more when his gaze fell upon them.

“Care to explain what you two are doing?” he inquired quietly, but his voice sent uneasy shivers down Rastaban’s spine reminding him that his father, he refused to call or see Regulus as anything else despite everything he had just learned, was just as dangerous and powerful as his grandfather. “Brother?”

“We... Eh, that’s a good question, Reg, a very good one indeed,” Sirius chuckled uneasily, flashing a horribly fake innocent grin at his younger brother.

Rastaban pulled his hand away and turned to face his papa, taking in the stony set of his father’s jaw and the charcoal eyes that narrowed with barely restrained rage. “We failed at hiding the fact that we’ve been blatantly eavesdropping on your... conversation with Grandfather,” he said without batting a lash, earning a raised eyebrow from his papa and a pitiful whine from his uncle.

For a moment Rastaban thought that his papa would lash out and punish him, but it passed as he noticed the slight twitch of Regulus’ lips. “It seems having your magic tied to mine was a good idea after all,” he said, the ghost of a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “But it doesn’t save you from being punished.”

“Now, Regulus, don’t you think–”

“I’ll deal with you later, Sirius.” Uncle Sirius snapped his mouth shut with a sharp click and Regulus turned his slyly shining eyes back to Rastaban. “I assume you’ve heard that we’re moving again.”

“Yes, Papa,” he agreed. “To Lima.”

“It’s a small town in Ohio, but not too secluded for us to draw attention.” His father nodded, his expression closed off once more. “Your tutors have been informed and you are also going to continue your muggle education.”

“Of course, I’d expect no less and thank you.”

“Now back to your punishment.” The shadow of that smirk was back causing Rastaban to start to get worried. “No magic, neither theory nor practice, for one week, and don’t give me that look, I’m perfectly aware that you can go longer than a week without using your powers.” Rastaban averted his gaze, unable to meet his father’s chastising glare.

“I understand,” was his response as he raised his chin in acceptance. Even if Regulus was not his father, he was still a Black and a True Black always accepted the consequences of their actions with their head held high. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Alright,” his papa inclined his head imperiously, yet, before Rastaban could have left, he reached out and carded his fingers through his hair and leant down, breathing a soft kiss onto his forehead to show he was forgiven. “Now go, I need to have a few words with your uncle.”

**22 August 2003, Black House, Lima, Ohio **

Regulus looked at the strange pair of Muggle men and the little girl standing in the doorway with matching bright smiles on their faces. One was tall with sun-kissed skin, dark eyes and hair. He was wearing blue jeans, an appalling, brown suit jacket with a sweater west and a salmon pink shirt. The other was lightly shorter with olive toned skin, ridiculous glasses, a big nose and a purple cardigan. From the way their arms were wrapped around each other, it didn’t take long to figure out they were romantically inclined and that the girl was theirs.

“May I help you?” Regulus asked politely.

The child showed off her perfectly white teeth and presented a still steaming pie to him, urging him to take it. “Hey, welcome to Lima!” she yipped like an overeager puppy. “I’m Rachel Berry and these are my two gay fathers, Hiram and LeroyBerry. We’re living next door!”

Regulus glanced at the men, expecting them to reprimand their daughter not only for embarrassing them, but also because of the lack of proper manners she was showing. However, they simply smiled adoringly at their child and after another moment of charming smiles they extended their hands introducing themselves cheerfully.

“As our little angel said, very welcome to Lima, Ohio!” the taller one said. “If you need anything, feel free to ask us, we’d be more than happy to help.”

“We hope you like cherry pie, Rachel put a great effort to make it, and it’s 100% kosher of course,” the other added, gesturing to the dessert in Regulus’ hand.

“Thank you, it’s very nice of you.” Regulus thanked his upbringing for managing to pull a seemingly honest smile. “I’m Regulus Black, the pleasure is mine.” He shook the proffered hands withholding the wince at the feeling of those sweaty palms touching his skin. “Would you like to come in?”

He hoped they would decline the invitation and wished his father hadn’t decided to visit Sirius to discuss yet another plan that had something to do with Thaddeus Nott and Sirius’ obvious attraction for him.

“Sure!” Hiram agreed almost immediately. “We’ve heard you have a child yourself and thought maybe he and our Rachel would hit it off...”

Regulus sincerely doubted it, but he couldn’t very well take the invitation back, so, after another strained smile he stepped back and let the Muggles in, already dreading his son’s reaction even if there was a great chance that Rachel would become Rastaban’s classmate come September.

“Please sit down, I’ll inform Rastaban about your arrival and fetch some refreshment. Would some iced tea be fine?” he inquired softly after they entered the bright and large sitting room.

Leroy and Hiram nodded in unison and looked around in the room, muted in their awe of the expensive and antique furniture. Their daughter was more vocal about her appreciation preventing Regulus to leave the room.

“Oh, Mr. Black! This is incredible! Is that sofa original? And those portraits! Is the whole house furnished similarly? Will you give us a tour later?” she questioned rapidly, causing Regulus to wonder whether she needed to breathe or not.

“Rachel,” Leroy chided gently, but his amusement was more prominent than his disapproval. “Sweetheart, don’t bother Mr. Black.”

“I’m sure he’s not bothered,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m not bothering you, Mr. Black, am I?”

“Of course not,” Regulus forced out, his easy-going mask slipping a bit. “But perhaps we should postpone that tour to a later date. We still have a lot of packing to do. Now, I’ll be back in a moment, please make yourself at home.”

He found his child in the newly finished library surrounded by rolls of parchments and big stacks of books. His slim, graceful fingers were glowing as he played with a ball of brightly coloured light, absentmindedly changing the colour and even the shape every other second.

He was a true prodigy, Regulus wondered, wasting minutes on simply staring at his precious son, feeling searing pride course through his heart. Rastaban’s tutors were just as dumbstruck by the level of power he was showing, easily coercing the fully trained wizards to teach him harder and more advanced spells with each passing day. He absorbed the magic around him with a frightening speed and unlike most children, he adored studying and learning about the theories behind each spell.

A fond smile curled Regulus’ lips as he knocked on the open door, drawing Rastaban’s attention to himself and earning a curiously lifted eyebrow, which his child could have only learned from Lucius who showed way too much interest in him these days, much to Regulus’ chagrin and frustration.

“We have guests, Rastaban.”

“Oh.” Confusion flashed over the boy’s features. “Have the Malfoys already arrived?” he asked and waved his hand, casting the _Tempus_ charm silently. “That’s not right. It’s only half past two.”

“No, my child, our guests are Muggles from our neighbourhood,” Regulus admitted with a sigh. “Their daughter is a bit... overeager, but seems like a bright girl nonetheless.”

“Which means she is an insufferable brat,” Rastaban retorted with a shake of his head, but stood up and stretched his arms above his head. “Grandfather would curse you so bad you couldn’t sit down for weeks if he were at home, you know,” he added with a small smirk, linking his arms into his Papa’s elbow causing Regulus to huff a disbelieving laugh.

“I’m not sure I like this new cheeky side of yours, my child,” he reprimanded ruffling the neatly combed curly tresses.

“I’m just being honest, Papa, you’re too nice for your own good,” Rastaban answered pressing a loving kiss onto Regulus’ cheek earning a playful glare from the older man.

They made a detour to the kitchen, to Kreacher and Remy’s absolute horror, and Regulus ordered them to remain out of sight after fetching two pitches of iced tea and the tray of glasses he ordered on his way to the library. They found the two Berry men sitting on the bronze framed sofa while Rachel was performing some kind of impromptu show, dancing and singing in a surprisingly clear but still childish voice.

Rastaban came to a sudden halt at the sight, forcing Regulus to follow suit and the older Black wizard could see the silent horror in his son’s bright green eyes as he stared at the still singing and dancing girl in the centre of the room. Regulus had to admit that there was something disturbingly fascinating in the small vigorous little girl and her enthusiastic performance; it was as if she had no sense of propriety.

Hiram sent a proud but sheepish smile in their direction, yet didn’t even try to make his daughter end her show. Instead he beckoned them closer, leaving no other chance for Regulus than to comply and take a seat, pulling his still shell-shocked child in his lap.

“Rachel has a great passion for singing,” Leroy whispered, pushing his glasses up on his nose, just as the girl bowed to her audience, her face split in two by her smile. “Bravo, sweetie, you were brilliant.”

“Of course I was brilliant!” Rachel rolled her eyes in a brief show of annoyance, but almost instantly turned her attention to Regulus and his son, raising her eyebrows expectantly. “Well? I know my voice is flawless, but I’m always up to hearing others’ opinions, too.”

Regulus was bewildered by the snootiness of this Muggle child and found it unbelievable that she was even more spoiled than Draco Malfoy who was the epitome of impertinent little snots. Maybe her behaviour was the result of the lack of fatherly discipline, as neither Hiram nor Leroy seemed to possess the power to handle their child. Or maybe it was the fact that amongst muggles, homosexual couples rarely had the chance to have children of their own, which must have made the Berry couple think it was fine pamper and spoil their only child as much as they could.

Reasoning aside though, Regulus doubted they would have appreciated if he had told the annoying chit off for causing such ruckus and being a self-centred, impudent little monster. “It was an... enjoyable show of talent, I have to admit,” he said in the end. “However, after such performance you must be thirsty, so I thought we should have a little toast and maybe you and Rastaban could get to know each other a bit.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be great friends!” Rachel nodded vigorously while Rastaban shot Regulus an imploring glare, which he ignored in favour of pouring the juice into the glasses. The Berrys smiled broadly and raised their glasses.

“To young talent and new friendships!” Regulus toasted clinking glass with his guests, inwardly feeling sorry for his child because if Rachel Berry’s look was anything to go by, Rastaban didn’t stand a chance to escape her clutches... maybe ever.

 

 


	5. Part V. - Black Yule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, although you can read the pre-edited chapter up to chapter 6 on FF.Net. Nevertheless, here is chapter 5 and I hope you'll like it. Kudos and comments are always welcome.

**_ Part V. – Black Yule _ **

 

** 20 December 2003, Black Tower, Manhattan, New York, New York **

“Rastaban, why are you not ready?” Black lashes fluttered, but it was the only reaction of surprise the boy allowed himself to show. He looked up from his book and met his father’s gaze head on. “The guests could arrive in any moment and you’re sitting here crouching over yet another book.”

“I apologise, Papa,” Rastaban said and closed the _Tome of Rites_ with a soft sigh. “I wanted to get a head start on the essay about the effect of dementors on different species. I forgot the time.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes in silent exasperation. Rastaban felt a pang in his heart for causing distress to his father once again. He knew that his Papa blamed himself for the weight Orion had been putting on his shoulders ever since they discovered the real extent of his magical core and aptitude when Rastaban was five and wandlessly charmed the light of every candle in the library green. In Rastaban’s opinion the mere suggestion was ridiculous; he couldn’t be grateful enough for the chance to explore the vast sea of knowledge the Black library offered.

In the end, his father only nodded, charcoal irises blazing with an inner fire that should have set the whole room aflame. “You’ll finish it another time. Your grandfather is an impatient man as you know.”

“Of course. I’ll join you in the foyer in a few minutes.” Rastaban stood up offering a half-hearted smile to his father who didn’t look impressed in the least.

“I don’t think so, young man. I’m coming with you.”

“But Papa!” Rastaban exclaimed to what Regulus raised one of his brows, causing his child to blush and avert his gaze at the unusual and childish outburst. “I’m not an invalid,” he whispered softly.

“Merely get immersed in books way too easily,” his father said with a faint smirk and Rastaban had to fight the urge to pout because his papa was right.

“Grandfather and Uncle Sirius are waiting,” he replied instead of arguing, but he kept his eyes on the floor, because he just knew his eyes would give away his real feelings.

Long fingers sunk into his hair silently, making Rastaban look peer up through his messy tresses that threatened to fall into his eyes. His papa was smiling gently, charcoal eyes shining with love, and Rastaban leaned into the touch, then brushed his lips against the older man’s in a chaste, loving kiss. There was really no sense in sulking, especially when they needed to be a united force against the herd of guests who were about to invade their home.

They reached Rastaban’s room without running into anyone, and fifteen minutes later every member of the Black Household stood in the foyer of their newest home waiting for the arrival of their guests.

It was the first time since Sirius had taken over Orion’s place as the Official Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black that the Blacks hosted or attended a ball. The mere rumour of the infamous Black men being once again ready to join the _Winter Season_ had been enough to stir up the Pureblood Society. Still, it was nothing compared to the complete mass hysteria that had broken out when the information of the tradition of the annual Black Yule Gala being restored had been leaked.

Every paper and magazine both in Europe and the States had had a field day with bits and pieces of rumours, provided by ambitious and power hungry wizards and witches who had claimed to be invited to the Gala, filling the pages with endless articles about the event, the menu, the guests and the dressing robes. Reporters and readers alike had guessed who would be privileged with an invitation for real and who would become an outcast and the laugh of society by the end of the night.

Just that morning, _The Magical Times_ foretold five hundred guests including the several prominent American families such as the McHarty and Farraday Clans alongside with the American Chancellor of Magic, while the _Daily Prophet_ published an interview with Cornelius Fudge who bragged about his handwritten and exceptionally tasteful invitational card that arrived two weeks before the event itself. Rastaban had a good laugh at the poor fool’s expense; boasting about being invited almost as an afterthought was pitiful and something only a complete imbecile or a desperate politician would do.

In truth, the Blacks only expected two hundred wizards and witches, sixty of whom they would personally welcome. Rastaban knew his duty as the heir of the Black name, and the expected radiant and openly welcoming smile was already plastered on his face as he took his place between his papa and uncle. At least Theodore, Blaise and Evan Rosier were going to be there to make things moderately bearable, because the thought of enduring his Cousin Draco’s brattiness alongside with the attitude of the other heirs and heiresses without the company of reasonable people was nearly enough to drive him crazy.

The “important” guests arrived first, Theodore and his brother amongst them, and Rastaban could feel his father’s approving gaze when he smiled at the mahogany haired boy who he came to see as a friend in the last nine and a half months. Thaddeus sent a shy smile in Sirius’ direction who returned it with a cheeky grin, encouraging the attraction that had sparked between them after one of their first meetings. Rastaban watched the brief encounter subtly, but still noting every little sign of emotion on his uncle’s face that belied his flirty smiles and borderline inappropriate touches. Sirius was playing along flawlessly and from what Rastaban had seen, there was no doubt that he liked the younger Lord even if his feelings were nearly not as strong as his gestures intended to show it.

Rastaban chanced a glance at his friend, but Theodore’s expression was smooth and unreadable, not sharing any of his thoughts about the situation. Well they had the whole night in front of them to talk and exchange opinions.

He was introduced to every notable member of the pureblood elite, smiling and complimenting the guests with more flourish than he had months ago. The Davises, the Flints, Madam Bones and her niece; families with heirs and heiresses his age or barely older than him were looking for a chance to have a piece of his family. After them came Lady Zabini and her newest conquest followed by Blaise whose act was as perfect as it had been the last time they met.

They exchanged polite greetings and he kissed Lady Zabini’s hand before the Greengrasses and the Montagues were announced; the youngest of the four children looked bashfully at Rastaban, dark chocolate eyes open and innocent despite the boy’s gangly form and wide shoulders. From Theodore’s last letter he had learned that Graham was a first year Slytherin at Hogwarts and belonged to the Flint Heir’s – who was a second year Slytherin – small circle alongside with Adrian Pucey, the second son of the relatively New Blood Pucey Family, and Evan’s baby brother, Damien.

The Malfoys arrived after the blubbering British Minister of Magic and the much more dignified American Chancellor, dressed to intimidate and breed envy in the hearts of the lesser nobles. Rastaban caught his Papa’s lips twitch upward before that whisper of a derisive smirk turned into a pleased and joyous smile. Hugs and kisses – restored for family only – were traded and Orion offered his arm to his niece, leading the family to the ballroom and leaving the duty to greet the remaining three families – including Evan and his little brother – to his sons and grandson.

“What a stunning social butterfly you make, Regulus.” Golden hair fell to the middle of the young man’s back, framing a haughtily handsome face and liquid bronze eyes. In Rastaban’s opinion he was the most breathtaking man on Earth, and currently the most eligible bachelor after Rastaban’s uncle and father.

“Good evening to you too, _Evan_ ,” Regulus retorted coolly. “I hope you will have a good time.”

“You can’t be still hung up on that little incident that happened the other day,” the blond pressed, but the younger Black brother just ran his hand through Rastaban’s hair, steering Lord Rosier’s attention to him. “As beautiful as ever, huh, my dear?” he purred dropping a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “Were I just a few years younger, my sweet Lycoris, your hand would be mine–”

“That’s enough, Rosier,” Sirius bit out frostily, stormy eyes thundering with barely restrained rage.

“As I said, sadly I’m too old to court your _nephew_ , Sirius,” Evan sighed dramatically, but he had the nerve to wink at Rastaban who felt like his face was on fire. “But I’d be careful, my friend, there are families with younger heirs and heiresses and lower morals; they’ll do anything to gain the little one and the power and status that come with him.”

Rastaban rolled his eyes and interrupted before his Papa and Uncle could have come up with another acidic retort. “Your concern is touching, Evan, but I’d worry about my own brother’s status and purity if I were you.”

The twenty-year-old chuckled darkly, bronze orbs sparkling viciously as he hugged his silent, but attentive sibling closer to his side. “Only a fool would think they’re worthy of such treasure.” His words felt like the sharpest velvet covered blade on Rastaban’s skin, yet the Black Heir didn’t back down, holding the man’s gaze defiantly.

“And only a complete madman who lost their mind would believe they could handle a hurricane such as our beloved little serpent,” Sirius quipped sharply. “Rest assured, Rosier, your brother is going to be safe with my nephew.”

“I’m not worried in the least, my friend,” Evan smirked and turned to Regulus. “I hope you’ll grant me a dance.”

Rastaban saw his father’s jaw clench, fighting the anger and was awed at the dignity and poise he showed when answered, “Of course, Evan. It would be an honour.”

“Splendid!” the blond wizard beamed. “And of course a dance from our future Lord is in order too.”

“Don’t–”

“Indeed,” Rastaban drawled, a small smirk curling his lips at the subtle flinch of the men around him; Snape’s sarcasm seemed to find them even in the dour man’s absence.

The Rosier brothers nodded and walked through the doors, allowing the last couple to be introduced. Rastaban smiled and played along according to his role, knowing there would be more people who wanted to know him, more children to watch and analyse. But at least, he still had a little time to spend with his friends and acquaintances in peace, away from the prying eyes of adults.

Every underage wizard and witch was herded into two separate chambers until the dance began, and Rastaban had to struggle to remember all of their names despite the information he had been provided with weeks ago. The wizards’ chamber opened from the witches’ room therefore Rastaban had to endure a few minutes of mindless chit-chat with the attending girls his age.

The Greengrass Heiresses greeted him with wide smiles and tried to ensnare his attention with sweet words, while Susan Bones offered a silent blush and bashful glances from the midst of the McCarthy sisters’ giggles and the Farraday Heiress’ coy lashes. He bid them a good evening, inwardly happy that he hadn’t reached the official age of puberty which meant it wasn’t required of him to dance with every available maiden and bachelor.

At last he reached Theo and the “Hogwarts Delegation”, noting the way Marcus Flint held Graham Montague around his waist as they lounged on one of the lush sofas. Damien was sitting on the brutish boy’s other side, chatting with Blaise amicably. Rastaban nodded to the boys and took the only empty armchair next to Theodore and across from Roger Davis who was currently talking to Draco and Jonathan, Graham’s only underage brother, about Quiddich if their gestures were anything to go by.

“Who else is expected to show up?” Theodore asked in a muted voice, his gaze sweeping over Rastaban’s black and amethyst coloured velvet covered form like a welcoming caress.

Rastaban shrugged elegantly, half of his attention never leaving the other guests around them. “Tristan Delacroix, a French acquaintance of mine, should join us in an hour or two alongside with the Krum and Volkov Heirs,” he listed, trying to remember every name his Papa shared with him. “The Prince patriarch also accepted the invitation, he is also bringing his grandnephew and niece with him. And of course there are the Wilkinson, Browning and Grayson Families with their children.”

“Maximilian Prince is gonna be here?” Jonathan Montague piped in, his face lit up with shocked excitement. “That man is a legend!”

Glowing green irises flickered in the thirteen-year-old’s direction, causing both him and his brother to blush in embarrassment.

“Please forgive John,” Graham murmured softly. “He didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation.”

“It’s all right,” Rastaban said with a small wave of his hand. The conversation wasn’t exactly private, and there was no need to alienate potential allies, especially ones that lived and studied in the States like Jonathan Montague. “And to answer your question,” here he turned to the older boy who was smiling brightly and just as innocently, “yes, Lord Prince is on the guest list. He and Grandfather went to school together.”

“Man, that’s so cool!” Jonathan crowded earning frowns and disapproving looks from the other boys and a glower from Marcus Flint who pulled the violently blushing Graham closer to him. “I love potions and the man is a pure genius!”

If every student who attended Salem Academy of Magic was such disgrace to the Wizard name, Rastaban could understand why his father and grandfather decided to home school him. It was strange to see how great the difference between the two brothers was, but then again the Montagues were famous – or more likely infamous – of raising their children by rather liberal ethics.

He exchanged a quick look with Theodore and chose not to comment on the elder Montague boy’s almost plebeian and mundane behaviour. If he wanted to be honest, spending years – especially the last few months thanks to a certain Rachel Berry – amongst Muggle children with mediocre skill and next to no manners made the lack of hidden meanings and manipulations kind of nice. Sadly, being simple and honest didn’t make up for acting like an uncouth stable boy.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t been introduced to Lord Prince yet, as he prefers his solitude.” Jonathan’s shoulders sagged in disappointment.

“Don’t I know? His granddaughter is in a few of my classes, but she wouldn’t even look at us lesser humans.” The honey haired teen’s bitter sneer was the first thing that resembled of anything remotely pureblood-like – aside from his fine robes and neatly combed tresses.

Flint snorted, drawing the attention to himself. “Why would anyone lower themselves to the level of a moron like you?” he growled, his unattractive features twisting into something barely human.

Jonathan’s jaw dropped in astonishment and his dark eyes filled with hurt, yet he surprised Rastaban with maintaining a fairly even tone. “I might be less... _distinguished_ than the lots of you, but at least I have enough decency not to smile into someone’s face before I slaughter them,” he retorted rigidly, instantly ruffling the young lordlings’ feathers.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Roger Davis demanded angrily, his face red and transparent with his emotions.

“I resent your accusations–” Damien added, but was interrupted by Jonathan’s mocking voice.

“I resent your accusations!” he parroted snidely. “Why don’t you simply say what’s in your mind instead of wrapping a simple “Fuck you!” into a–”

“That’s enough!” Rastaban cut in coldly, glaring at his companions from his seat before he pinned Jonathan with a cutting stare. “I don’t tolerate such foul language in my presence. It might be acceptable amongst _your_ peers, but you are humiliating your brother and shaming your family with this attitude.”

The older wizard blinked at him, obviously dumbfounded by Rastaban’s reprimand. “I was just trying to be honest,” he argued.

“You can be honest without turning your companions against you and cursing like some common beggar,” Rastaban shot back. “Maybe instead of letting the Muggle influence turn you into an inarticulate brute, you should spend more time on polishing your manners and learning some etiquette, so Miss Prince wouldn’t ignore your very presence.”

“Dude, you sure act like an old geezer! No offence!” Jonathan exclaimed in wonder, making Graham hide his face in Flint’s robes and Draco glower. Theodore simply sighed in exasperation while Blaise almost stilled unnaturally as he watched the situation unfold.

Rastaban refrained from echoing his friend’s sigh and for the sake of peace, he decided to take the blatant insult with good humour. “Thank you for the compliment.” He smirked lightly. “My grandfather is an admittedly wise man who tends to know what he is talking about.”

Draco snickered obscurely and shot a smug look at the grinning Montague boy, but didn’t comment just like he hadn’t said anything during the whole obstacle. Hopefully, it meant that the young Malfoy was learning some much needed humility and restrain; cousin or not, Rastaban had no need for spoiled brats as allies, and if Narcissa was just half as sensible as she seemed to be, she would stop letting his son getting away with everything.

“So you’re ten, right?” Jonathan asked curiously.

“Yes, I’m turning eleven on the 31st.”

“Cool! I’ll sure–” The older boy stopped and frowned at his knees for a second before he continued. “Sorry, what I wanted to say was that I’d be happy to be your mentor when you come to Salem next year.”

“You are going to attend Salem Academy?” Draco accused, an angry scowl twisting his pointed face. Usually silvery eyes turned stormy, complete with invisible lightning bolts, reminding Rastaban of the picture of a veela on the brink of changing forms he had once seen in a book on magical creatures. “But you said Uncle Regulus decided to home school you!”

“Draco.” Dark fingers curled around the blonde’s hand, gently forcing him to turn to Blaise who only needed to raise an eyebrow to make his anger deflate.

“I’m sorry, _Cousin_.” The manipulating little snake emphasised on the relationship between the two of them, making it impossible for Rastaban to act on his growing irritation. “I was merely shocked by Montague’s assurance in your choice of education.”

“If my father had changed his mind, you would _obviously_ already know about it, Cousin,” he retorted mercilessly, enjoying the Malfoy Heir’s small flinch at the jibe. It didn’t go unnoticed that he disregarded the not even half-honest apology. However, with the apparent familiarity between the two of them, no one could accuse him of being rude, after all, it was only natural that family forgave each other.

“So you’re not coming to Salem?”

Rastaban tore his gaze away from the fuming Draco and turned to Jonathan who looked really downtrodden. A true Gryffindor if he ever saw one, he mused as he opened his mouth to answer. “I’m afraid, I’m not. The curriculum, while interesting in segments, is not up to my standards.”

“The Hogwarts curriculum has very big holes too,” Roger Davis commented, unknowingly starting a very heated argument between the occupants of the room.

Another course of appetisers was served and the crystal flutes refilled while the older wizards compared their schools and bragged about the virtues of their respective Alma Mater. It left the younger children to form their own circles of conversations and allowed Rastaban the opportunity to talk to Theo without at least another twenty eager ears and eyes to listen in and watch on uninvited.

“Is everything alright? You look troubled,” the brunet inquired softly, long fingers touching Rastaban’s hand that lay on the railing of the balcony timidly.

Green eyes looked out at the huge skyscrapers that surrounded them, conflicting emotions fighting within his heart, His conscience urged him to share his suspicions with his friend, yet instead of confiding in Theo, he simply offered a wan smile and intertwined his fingers with the other boy’s bigger ones. Because no matter how much he wanted to, Theodore was not family, and a True Black would never betray their family.

“I’m still not good at playing the doting host,” he lied, his lips quirking ruefully, earning an amused chuckle.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Theodore argued. “You handled Montague better than anyone, even Blaise could have.”

Rastaban shrugged, his face felt uncomfortably warm at the compliment. “I did nothing more than what was expected from me.”

“Rastaban, you basically forced him to change with a few well-placed words,” the Nott Heir stated, curling his free hand around the smaller wizard’s face, gently urging him to look him in the eyes. “Knowing the reputation of the Montagues and _that_ school, it’s a feat no one should have expected from you.”

“You are exaggerating,” Rastaban accused with a mild glare. He felt flustered and Theo’s hand felt really warm on his face, while his gaze seemed to see through him; it made the raven haired boy anxious.

“You don’t see it now, but your will alone will be enough to force the world to its knees.” Theo sounded oddly solemn.

Rastaban wanted to reply and tell his friend that the world would become his one day, but unlike Draco, he didn’t lack common sense and found bragging beneath him. No, he would learn and practice to become stronger, so when the time was finally right, he would be able to take the place that was his by birth right with grace.

“Am I interrupting something?” A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts, and he could barely refrain from jumping away from his friend’s hold that must have looked quite inappropriate from an outsider’s point of view.

“Flint,” Theo lifted an eyebrow, but lowered his hand back to his side. “Did you need something?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Nott,” Marcus practically snarled. “My words are for Black and no one else.”

“If you think, I’ll leave him alone with you–”

“I can handle myself, Theodore,” Rastaban cut in coolly, emerald irises flashing with silent power. “Why don’t you join Draco and Blaise? We can continue our conversation at a later date.” Despite the wording his tone left no doubt that he’d just given an order. And maybe there was something in what Theo said, because the Nott Heir, although he pursed his lips in displeasure, went back to the sitting room the underage wizards occupied.

“You have some nerve, I have to admit,” Flint hummed, his cold glare intimidating and vicious. “Being alone with me and all...”

Rastaban’s lips quirked upwards in a sardonic smirk. He refused to give in to the monstrous teen’s threatening stance. “You are a remarkable wizard, Flint,” he said simply, causing the other to scowl.

“I could break you scrawny, pretty little neck with my bare hands.”

“But you won’t.” Strangely enough he was confident in that Marcus would do nothing. “So if you’re quite finished with this unbecoming posturing, we might proceed to the real reason you came after me.”

Flint growled. “You insufferable little brat.” Rastaban raised an unimpressed eyebrow which made the older boy’s chest rumble with another menacing growl before he averted his black eyes and muttered. “I want a dance.”

“Your manners are abhorring.”

“Yes or no?”

Rastaban took in the dark, not even remotely attractive face and impressive body that towered over his petit form without effort. Marcus Flint couldn’t be called handsome by any means and an astonishing amount of anger adjoined to his plain appearance, but if what he’d seen was anything to go by, the teen protected the ones close to him with an admirable fierceness. And it was that strong protectiveness that made him nod in affirmation after painfully long minutes of pondering.

“You may have a dance,” he said slowly. “However, you owe me.”

“I owe you?!”

“Naturally. What did you expect? That I would allow you to talk to me like I was dirt on the sole of your shoe?” Rastaban’s tone turned ice cold and his eyes hardened, showing him much older than his age.

“And what do you want from me?” Flint snapped, dark eyes ablaze with fury.

“Nothing. Yet.” Rastaban added when the other opened his mouth to come up with another barked insult. “But don’t worry, I’ll let you know when I need... your services.”

“Sneaky little bitch,” Marcus gritted out, but instead of stalking off, he offered his arm which the younger wizard accepted with a nod.

“I’m a Black, I’ve been learning from the best,” he replied, allowing his new... ally to lead him back to the room.

Shortly after the arrival of the rest of the guests – thirty-one underage wizards and nineteen witches were amongst them – dinner was served in the Grand Dining Hall. The Blacks shared the head table with the Malfoys, Notts, Zabinis, Krums and Lord Prince, which instantly posed as a great source of rumours for everyone in the hall. If the faint smirk playing in the corner of Uncle Sirius’ mouth was anything to go by, he was greatly amused by whatever snippets he managed to catch of the stories circulating amongst the guests.

Rastaban could see why many would see seating the Krums and Lord Prince as a strange choice. After all, the Krums were not even amongst the important guests, or so almost everyone seemed to think because they were the lasts to arrive. Except the Krums were one of the highest standing Bulgarian families, and originally they would have been personally welcomed by the door like the other more important guests. Lady Krum, however, had gone into labour just that afternoon, delivering a healthy baby girl hours later as the Krum house elf proudly informed Sirius before she relayed the message that the attending members of the family would arrive just before dinner was set to be served. Lord Prince, on the other hand, had only received a place at the head table because of his status as Orion’s old friend which did not extend to his family. He was a stern, regale man whose expression never changed. Rastaban had seen him with his grandfather a couple of times, but he never had been introduced because it would have been socially inacceptable. From up close, it was obvious that Lord Prince’s grandson bore a great resemblance to him, as they both had the same bottomless black eyes and dour features, but no one dared mention the shame of his daughter and the reason he or his family couldn’t be welcomed as a privileged guest ever again.

The courses were tasteful, but still screamed of the family’s high standing, and the conversations were amicable and consisted of nothing of importance. Orion entertained his companions with anecdotes about his years spent at Hogwarts, drawing delighted chuckles and laughs from everyone around him, while Sirius flirted with Thaddeus, making the younger lord blush even as he smiled and shyly quipped back. Rastaban watched the act from under hooded lids, trying to ignore the acidic burn of guilt in his stomach. He didn’t like the way his uncle was toying with Lord Nott’s feelings, playing the man like a virtuoso and knowing perfectly well that Thaddeus was already well on his way to fall in love with him.

It was an obviously political move as unifying the two families would ensure the Notts’ and their followers’ ultimate support. Thaddeus was a good choice because he was not only the head of an important but less prominent family than the Black, but also intelligent, attractive, rich and popular despite the rumours about his father having been the Dark Lord’s follower before his untimely death. It was a logical move, but maybe the sentimental nature of Rastaban’s papa was contagious because it just didn’t seem right in the boy’s eyes. Although Uncle Sirius’ growing attraction gave him hope that the pair wouldn’t end up in a loveless sham of a marriage like the Malfoys.

Still, the nagging feeling that something tricky was going on didn’t disappear. Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy didn’t care about his troubles and during the main course, he decided he had enough of listening in on the adult’s conversation and chose Rastaban to keep him amused.

“What did Flint want from you?” he demanded quietly between bites of honeyed golden potato.

“A friendly chat.”

At the barely suppressed choking sound, Lucius glanced in their way from across the table, his silver eyes were imploring and held a warning that made Draco double his efforts to stifle his coughs. He stared at Rastaban, his red face accusing.

“He is a brainless thug,” the blond whispered hoarsely, “but strong.”

“Your worry is touching, Cousin, but unfounded,” the black haired boy murmured, holding up his polite facade for the adults’ sake. “Marcus was perfectly gentlemanly and only asked for a dance later.”

The Malfoy heir looked outraged, but was smarter than to cause a scene. Rastaban was satisfied even with this small progress. Draco was still too rash and spoiled rotten, yet the Black Heir was determined to make an honourable Black out of him. After all, they were the only ones who had the chance to continue the line. From what he had heard the other day when Orion escorted Lucius to the door after another one of their monthly meetings, his grandfather had similar thoughts.

He tilted his head to the side slightly, and, after trading a sideway glance with his Papa, he asked, “Would you honour me with a dance?”

Twin spots of pink painted Draco’s cheeks, but after the initial shock of being asked, he stuck his nose in the air and put on his best arrogant facade. “It’s expected of us,” he drawled.

“My pleasure.” Aunt Narcissa smiled approvingly, alongside with Rastaban’s grandfather.

Grey eyes narrowed, but instead of commenting on the barely hidden sarcasm in Rastaban’s tone he started talking about the new broom his father promised to get him for Yule, successfully including an awkwardly silent Viktor Krum who still had problems with the language, but was the youngest member of Durmstrang’s quiddich team.

After dinner, Orion and Sirius officially opened the ball. Rastaban’s grandfather took his niece to the dance floor while Sirius danced with Thaddeus Nott, showing off their budding relationship and causing the wizards and witches around them to start whispering. There was no doubt that their romance would be on the front page of every newspaper next day. A stiff shouldered Regulus was led to the dance floor by Lucius, and Rastaban took Draco’s hand in his own to keep up the perfect picture, filing the look of scarcely veiled desperation in his father’s eyes away for later analysis.

Soon, the dance floor was packed with couples and simple dancing partners, and the mood became spirited. The air filled with laughter and chattering. Coy smiles and flirting looks were exchanged amongst the still unattached young adults, while the teenaged witches and wizards blushed and stuttered their ways through the rituals of asking and being asked for a dance. And of course there were the ones who acted cocky and arrogant in their effort to hide their nerves. Rastaban silently thanked his forefathers for being too young to care about courting or the obligation of dancing with every available person in the room.

The night progressed wonderfully, and it turned out that Marcus Flint was an adequate dancer in spite of his scowls and Neanderthalic manners. Rastaban watched as Evan moulded his Papa’s steps without effort, disregarding Regulus’ stony expression and dangerously glinting charcoal eyes while Lucius glared with frosty contempt at the blond haired wizard’s back over the brim of his glass.

All in all, the Gala was a great success. For the Blacks, however, it was just another step that brought them closer to their goal.

 


	6. Part VI. - Cheerleading Charm

**_ Part VI. – Cheerleading Charm _ **

****

** 31 December 2003, 12th Grimmauld Place, London, England **

Lucius couldn’t say he was surprised when Regulus decided to invite only a handful of close friends for his son’s eleventh birthday instead of holding a grand party like it was expected. He was beyond paranoid when it came to Rastaban, not that Lucius couldn’t understand why. The boy’s was incredibly talented and magic basically rolled off him in thick, heavy, dark waves, enthralling everyone around him. Lucius was no fool and it was blatantly obvious how mesmerised those spoiled children were, following him around all night and fighting for the privilege to be in his presence. Rastaban was regale and way too mature for a ten – now eleven – year old boy, and he bore a silent commanding force Draco could never even hope to acquire. It should have frustrated Lucius, the outrageous contrast between his heir and Regulus’ son, yet he couldn’t help but adore the quiet child genius nearly as much as he loved and desired his graceful and stubborn Raven King.

Lucius’ jaw clenched at the thought of Regulus and the distorted bond that entwined their souls, shackling Regulus to him for an eternity without doing the same with Lucius. But the link was there, fragile and faint, easily shadowed by the bond that tied Lucius to another, a cunning, cunning woman who expected nothing less than absolute loyalty. It was something Lucius despised her for more than anything, except for maybe his father who offered him on a silver platter to gain more power, but certainly more than the Dark Lord who had almost destroyed his family and life. At some point in the past, he might have admired her and her radiant elegance, but she could never measure up to his King and the age old emotions that had built between them during their play dates even if they had felt more like babysitting sessions at that time.

His eyes involuntarily found Regulus’ dark blue robe covered frame, noting how his expression softened when Rastaban came up to him, saying or asking something to which Regulus only nodded and ran his hand through the child’s hair in reassurance. However, Lucius could still see the tense lines of his shoulders, as if Regulus could sense the power of Lucius’ stare, but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction. Instead, he opted for conversing with that pompous bastard Rosier, not pulling away when the disgusting parasite dared to grab his elbow, fingers stroking up and down on the rich fabric.

“I think Papa will be most displeased if you break one of his beloved crystal goblets.” Lucius’ free hand reflexively shot to his wand as a soft voice wafted over his ears out of nowhere, instantly followed by an amused chuckle no less quiet than the words beforehand.

He tore his gaze away from that scum who was openly flirting with Lucius’ Bonded and turned to face an inquiringly watching Rastaban Black. “It’s quite impolite to sneak upon someone like you just did,” he drawled coolly, but the child wasn’t deterred in the slightest.

“Are you implying that I startled you?” Rastaban retorted, the beginning of a smirk touching the corner of his lips.

“Of course not. I merely stated the rudeness of your action in hope you will learn from it,” Lucius quipped back, feeling ridiculously unbalanced beneath the thunderous power that radiated from Rastaban’s emerald green eyes.

“Ah, but according to Professor Snape, stealth is a very useful weapon against your enemies.” Rastaban’s gaze was almost challenging, but not quite, keeping his expression respectful and unreadable. Lucius couldn’t help but admire the boy’s control over his emotions even if his words irked him to no end.

“Do you think I’m your enemy?” he inquired, allowing a whisper of frostiness to touch his tone.

Rastaban’s smile seemed almost snakelike as he stared at Lucius, causing dread to fill the older wizard’s chest. “Are you my enemy, _Uncle_ Lucius?” The child’s tone was still quiet and light, but the look in his suddenly dead cold eyes told Lucius without doubt that he knew and would never forgive him for what he had done to Regulus. They stared at each other, the seconds passing in accusing silence, and for the first time since taking the Malfoy lordship, Lucius found that he had no excuse or explanation for his actions. His declaration of never ending love and cursed loyalty would mean nothing, still Lucius felt like he had to assure the boy of his feelings no matter how much it pained him to lower himself to such plebeian thing.

“I would never do anything to deliberately–”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence with your feeble half-truths,” Rastaban cut in, but his attention had already slipped away, resting on his godfather’s rigid back who was currently standing by the fireplace having a seemingly less than friendly conversation with his own father. “Just remember this, whatever you might think, you don’t have forever.” He didn’t wait for Lucius’ answer, simply walked away to join Draco and the other young heirs who were chatting and had been sneaking glances at them in the corner of the room, leaving Lucius to contemplate what he had just learnt.

He looked down at the empty goblet in his hand, noting the intricate patterns that decorated the artfully polished crystal. If what Rastaban had said was true, and it must have been because neither Sirius nor Orion had hunted him down, then Regulus had kept their bond even from his family. A part of Lucius was somewhat grateful for that, while the part that was burning with desire and need to acknowledge Regulus as his was outraged. To ease his mind from the heavy thoughts, his gaze wandered over to the set of love seats where his wife was engaged in a cordial chat with Madam Montague and Lady Flint, revelling in the feeling of outright gloating; he knew perfectly well how much she hated both women. Sadly for her, they were the only witches whose husbands managed to form some sort of close bonds with the Black Family, aside from Lady Zabini of course, but the Black Widow was absent that evening. Rumour had it she was attending the infamous Hoarfrost Soire in Milan, but according to a very self-satisfied looking Narcissa, who had heard it from Orion, she only mentioned a family event in her RSVP, so there was a great chance the entire debacle was just something to feed the ever vulturous gossip mongers.

Either way, neither she nor her son was present, leaving Draco in a funk and in even more desire to somehow draw young Rastaban’s attention away from the Nott Heir. Lucius allowed himself a nearly inaudible sigh at his son’s indiscretion and lack of stealth. It didn’t matter how much time he spent on teaching Draco the ways of a proper heir, the boy was headstrong as a rampant hippogriff, not to mention ever since their first meeting, was obsessed with Rastaban because the other boy didn’t fall to his feet to worship the ground he was walking on. Hopefully, with time and the great distance that Hogwarts provided, his interest would be piqued by something else, making him forget his childish infatuation with his cousin.

Lucius’ attention was drawn to the Flint Heir and his possessive hold on Graham Montague as they walked away from the great French windows they had been standing by chatting with one of Graham’s older brothers. He had no doubt that the budding romance that was based on the young Montague Heir’s bashfulness and Flint’s beast-like possessive passion would be strong enough to defy the will of Wilhelm Flint and his plan to betroth Marcus to the Brunswick Heiress. They would never fall in the trap of an unloving marriage, like he had, because young Marcus’s will was bordering on ferocious and he would never allow others to make his decisions for him even if that person was the head of his family. Before Lucius could have delved deeper into his rapidly darkening thoughts, a small hand touched his shoulder, demanding his attention.

“Don’t even think about it, Lucius,” Narcissa whispered coldly, her ice coloured eyes cutting into him cruelly. “ _Cousin_ Regulus wants Rastaban to cut the cake now and your spacing out is most disgraceful, especially in such an important moment.”

Lucius’ jaw clenched to prevent him from saying something unforgivable and opted for rising from his seat instead. He offered his elbow to his wife, not looking at the witch for a second as they walked over to the dining room where the other guests had already gathered around the table. Charcoal eyes met his lighter gaze for a second before Regulus turned back to his perfectly reserved son who was waiting patiently at the head of the table. He didn’t show the slightest sign of eagerness for being allowed to cut his own cake or for being the centre of attention, he simply stood next to his father’s chair, looking around the room with mild interest.

The cake – a moderately big and beautifully decorated chocolate fudge cake with a white chocolate lace pattern and miniaturised flowers and animated birds carved out of orange on the top – appeared out of thin air. It floated toward Rastaban who was smiling softly as he openly held his father’s hand, something that would have been unimaginable in any other household. “Ah, no candles,” he murmured quietly, but in the expectation filled silence everyone could clearly hear his words.

“We can’t have you wishing for world domination too soon, you know,” Sirius spoke up from the other end of the table earning jovial laughter from the audience. Lucius smiled thinly, but unlike the others who were left wondering about the seriousness of the statement, he heard the small warning in the Black Lord’s tone. “You’d turn our entire world into one big library.”

“It would be tragic, I’m sure, Uncle Sirius,” Rastaban answered, rolling his gleaming green eyes in what seemed like fond resignation. Sirius flashed him a wide grin in return, making Lucius question Orion’s decision when he had named his eldest son the Head of the House. “There are many things I could say, expressing my gratitude alongside with making resolutions and wishes, but I will not bore you with such nonsense. I have only one resolution as the future Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black to make. Your decision to form a bond with my family, pledging your loyalty and allegiance to us is invaluable and in exchange I, as the future Head of the House, promise you that as long as your loyalty doesn’t waver, you have my family’s power behind your backs.”

Lucius watched as the boy raised his newly purchased wand – ash, eleven and a half inches with thestral hair for its core, or so Draco had told him – touching the tip to the inner side of his left wrist cementing his vow just like his uncle had done when they formed the already existing pacts between the Black, Malfoy, Nott and Zabini families years ago. The gesture was honourable and generous, securing the connection for the future generations of their Houses. Unbeknownst to the satisfied looking lords and ladies, it also sealed the beginning of a new era for the Pureblood Society, and Lucius would have a front row seat to watch as the world exploded around the ignorant poor sods’ heads.

He allowed himself a subtle glance at Regulus whose expression was soft and proud, but barely hid the wicked gleam that shone deep down in his charcoal eyes. Oh yes, the Wizarding World as they knew would burn to its ashes, only to reborn and soar to heights unknown to the magical race. The only question was whether the road would be paved with freshly shed blood and agony or pride and acceptance.

** January the 6th 2004, Elmwood Elementary School, Lima, Ohio **

Rastaban bit back an annoyed sigh as someone called after him just as he stepped out of the boys’ lockers room. He was tired and sore thanks to Captain Wilson who had taken great delight in making him fight against every sixth graders in the Fencing Club just because he had been five minutes late. Which was entirely Berry’s fault, as the girl didn’t know how to shut her mouth and just kept whining and complaining about her useless vocal coach or whatever – never mind that they were standing in front of said vocal coach’s classroom with her on the other side of the door – and by the time she let his arm go and disappeared behind the door of the Music room Rastaban had no chance of arriving to practice in time.

 

Shaking his head in exasperation, Rastaban turned around to face the owner of the voice that intended to sound both sultry and authoritative but only managed to grate on his already frayed nerves, seeing a girl in a frilly blue and white skirt and a sleeveless top that were parts of the cheerleader uniform walking towards him. She was really pretty with her dark hair, beseeching brown eyes and tan skin, but she was rather short for her age, yet she walked with the confidence of a person at least twice her size. As someone who was not interested in getting involved in a horde of Muggle children’s silly power games, it was no wonder Rastaban didn’t know her name. She wasn’t in his class either, although they were probably in the same year, which made him wonder what she could possible want from him, considering they had never met before. He did not question how she knew his name though; being the small cow town Lima was, everyone knew and loved to talk about the illustrious Black family much to Rastaban’s dismay.

 

She stopped in front of him, her posture screaming of aggression and too much pride. She offered a perfectly calculated promising smirk, telling Rastaban her intentions without uttering a word and causing him to withhold a pained groan. It seemed like refuting the cheerleader captain’s disturbingly frank and obtuse advances wasn’t enough to deter others from approaching him. Naturally, mingling with Muggle children had taught him that they didn’t hold the same values and had much laxer morals than their magical counterparts, nonetheless, he couldn’t understand what a bunch of ten-year-olds could possibly offer to each other when it came to relationships. They threw the word dating around, holding hands for a day then fluttered over to another person, acting and some of them even dressing like teenagers, as if it was completely normal behaviour for children their age. It was perplexing not to mention dangerous, and made Rastaban immensely happy that he was a wizard and had the chance to learn what propriety and holding up traditions meant.

 

“Yes?” Rastaban asked, when the girl continued to stare at him without saying anything.

 

“You, me and Britt at the movies on Friday,” she drawled lazily, trying to sound already bored with the entire conversation, but her giddily gleaming eyes gave her away instantly. “Pick us up at five.”

 

Rastaban raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her before he looked down at his wristwatch to check the time. Did the girl think that he was an idiot? Of course he was not an expert on the nature of women, but from what he had seen so far he could tell that there was no woman – witch or mundane – who would ever tolerate being courted alongside with another woman. Except if said women were more interested in each other than in the man courting them. Which, if the intense, almost vulturous look in the girl’s dark brown eyes was anything to go by, must have been the case. The realisation caused his lips to curl into a faint smirk; he would enjoy playing with this condescending little chit.

 

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, causing the girl’s eyes to narrow.

 

“Are you a retard?” she retorted, folding her arms in front of her flat chest. “You have the chance to date the hottest girls at this hellhole and you have to ask what’s in it for you?”

 

“The visual appeal might be enough for the ignorant children who go to this ‘hellhole’ as you called it, but unlike them, I can see through your pathetic little ploy,” Rastaban countered, earning a withering glare. “And let me tell you, I’m not impressed or interested.”

 

“You saying you’re too good for us?” she asked testily, but she couldn’t hide her growing worry and fear over being found out.

 

“No,” Rastaban answered with a shake of his head. He had to admit, he was a little disappointed with the girl’s lack of stealthiness and wit, because for a moment it seemed like she had the potential to become an engaging character. Now, Rastaban could only see an irritating kid on the brim of throwing a tantrum for not getting her way. “I’m saying that I’m not interested in paying for you and your _friend’s_ romantic escapade. Except if you can make the awaiting boredom worth my while.”

 

“You want me to make out with you? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” the girl snapped, scowling viciously. Still she didn’t deny his accusations, which was interesting. “Should have known you’re as much of dick as that asshole Puck.”

 

“A girl should never use such a foul language, you know,” Rastaban commented, not at all fazed by the insults or the rather amusing growl that escaped the girl’s lips. “Nonetheless,” he added, when she opened her mouth, probably to come up with a suitable cutting remark, “I was raised to respect women, and even though you act like an uncouth street rat that doesn’t even know how to introduce themselves, I would never violate you in such way.”

 

“Don’t make me laugh! You’re just like them, wanting the same no matter what pretty words you use for it!” she barked. “And obviously your precious mama forgot to teach you that blackmailing people is not acceptable.”

 

Rastaban’s lips curled upwards lazily, knowing how much it must have angered the girl. “Now, that’s bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? After all, nothing in this world is for free. And you using me as your facade is not different.”

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she scoffed indignantly, but her cheeks coloured in embarrassment. “I’m not a… like that.”

 

“You’re a tiny bit too late to deny the obvious,” Rastaban noted calmly.

 

He couldn’t say he understood her fear of admitting that she had feelings for another girl, after all sexual preference was not an issue in the Wizarding World, at least to most Purebloods. Of course, there were families like the Flints and Crouches and probably the Davises – if the way Mr. Davis had tried to force his son into dancing with every attainable female at the Yule Gala was anything to go by – who looked down on homosexuality, but to most families what mattered was adding to the power and wealth of their respective Houses and trivial things such as one’s sex was not an issue when it came to marriage. But living amongst Muggles had taught him that while technologically they were a hundred times more advanced, for some reason, they still acted like they lived in the Middle Ages when it came to social roles and sexuality.

 

This girl wasn’t different either. “If you say another word, I’ll punch you in the face. If someone, you must be the faggot for refusing an offer like this!”

 

“Your big girl act is far from convincing, you know,” he commented offhandedly, shifting his gear on his shoulder. “You can act like you’re though and nothing can hurt you all you want, but let me tell you this: you can’t fool me. So, answering the question you should have asked _after_ telling me your name, you owe me. And the dress code is elegant.” Rastaban didn’t wait for an answer, he just turned around and left the girl to figure the meaning of his words out; his papa was probably wondering what took him so long.

****

** January the 9th 2004, Le Pérre Restaurant, Dayton, Ohio **

“Who’s that guy?” Rastaban bit back a weary sigh at Santana Lopez’s – as Berry enlightened Rastaban about one of his dates’ name first thing in the next morning after his encounter with the girl – preposterous attitude. Who in their right mind pointed their fingers at other people in public, in a high-end restaurant no less?

“Our chaperon for the evening,” he replied dispassionately, his gaze flickering over to the secluded table across from theirs. Uncle Sirius was currently discussing something with an openly flirting waitress, frowning and rolling his eyes at her antics, but Rastaban wasn’t fooled by his overly posh act. Most of his uncle’s attention was trained on them, looking out for potential danger. “You surely didn’t think my father would allow me to go out without a proper escort.”

“This is so lame and not even his hotness redeems that. I’m not a toddler!” she raved, contradicting her words by huffing and puffing like a spoiled child. “Chaperon my ass!”

The waiter, who was nearing their table, pressed his mouth together shortly and Rastaban felt the urge to follow his example. He glanced over at the dazed blonde sitting next to Santana, but she simply blinked back at him, not showing any sign of awareness of her surroundings. Just what kind of mess did he get himself into? “Lopez, lower your voice,” he insisted frostily. “And try to act like a respectable young woman who knows what having proper manners means,” he added when the girl opened her lips to snap back something.

“You use very strange words,” Brittany commented out of nowhere just as the waiter reached them, pouring them a glass of sparkling, non-alcoholic champagne, a professional but transparent smile plastered onto his face. “Like my sweet kitty, Lord Tubbington. He’s really cute and fluffy, you should meet him… you’re a prince right?”

“Welcome to Le Pérre, Mr. Black! My name is Anthony and I will be your waiter this evening,” the waiter spoke up, his mask slipping slightly. Rastaban inwardly mused whether he was new or simply lacked the training to handle uncouth, arrogant children who had never been to a five star restaurant in their lives. “The champagne is of course on the house, and please feel free to call me if you need something. I hope you and your company will have a lovely time in our restaurant.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” Rastaban nodded.

“So if I want real champagne, then he’ll bring it to me?” Santana quirked one of her brows, staring at her glass pointedly. “Being a super rich brat like you needs to have some extra advantage, aside from the shit load of money and posh parties, of course.”

“Of course, because having money automatically means that you’re above the laws,” Rastaban retorted. “Why don’t you look over the menu instead of showing off the extremely dark shades of grey that colour your mind?”

“For that comment alone, I’m going to order the most expensive stuff they offer, just so you know,” she sniped, hiding her flaming cheeks behind the tasteful, cream coloured leather covered menu. “And Britt is going to have the same.”

“Don’t be mean, Sanny,” Brittany chided softly, putting her paler and bigger hand over Santana’s clenched fist that was probably creasing the menu’s pages. “Prince Charming won’t meet my Lord Tubbington and Lord Tubbington will be sad.”

Rastaban blinked, admitting himself that he didn’t understand a thing of what the blonde girl had just said. Of course he had heard some of the rumours circulating the school’s halls, but none of them was as far fetched as Brittany’s theory. Him being the most featured heroic character of fairy tales? Draco would have died laughing if he had heard such absurdity. Still, Brittany seemed so eager and sure of her delusions that Rastaban tried to choose his words with even more care than usual as he corrected her.

“It’s very flattering that you think so highly of me,” he said, suppressing a wince when Brittany only stared at him without the slightest comprehension. “But I’m no prince.”

“Yeah, Britt, he’s just ridiculously rich brat who likes using posh, big words,” Santana added her two cents, grinning smugly before she raised her flute to her lips, sipping her champagne.

“But he has a sword, I’ve seen it!” Brittany argued, cocking her head to the side. “And seen him in your mom’s mag, you know in that pretty one with the hot models and awesome clothes we want but not big and rich enough to have.”

Santana’s lips pursed in irritation, but amazingly enough instead of biting her friend’s head off, she just sighed and turned her hand over, gently linking their fingers. “Of course I know,” she murmured. “But he’s really not a prince. What would a prince be doing in Lima?”

“Hiding from reporters? Or bad men? But you know that only princes have swords! We saw it in _The Little Mermaid_ and _Sleeping Beauty_.”

Thanks to his uncle, Rastaban was familiar with what Muggles called fairy tales. Even though he had grown up on _The Tales of Beadle the Bard_ and legends of the Old Gods and the Great Mother, Uncle Sirius had made sure that he was educated in everything Muggle when his father first sent him to elementary school. He didn’t particularly like them, finding the fair princesses and heroes who after falling in the trap of the story’s villain saved the day and got said princesses mostly mediocre and repetitively boring. Although he had to admit that the original version of _The Little Mermaid_ had been an interesting and refreshing reading after endless pointless happy endings and sappy romance. However, he doubted Brittany was thinking about the same version, not that Rastaban was in a hurry to tell her that because of the heavy magical concentration in his home and in his blood, he had never seen any of the movies most of the children were so fond of.

Instead he put on a polite smile, not in the least intimidated by Santana’s death glare, and looking into Brittany’s slightly hazed but bright eyes he said, “I have yet to watch _Sleeping Beauty_ , would you mind to enlighten me?”

“How can you not seen it?” It seemed the decoy worked splendidly, because she had already forgotten her observation about Rastaban’s status as a royalty. “It has the prettiest princess in it and Sanny told me that she totally looks like me! Right, Sanny?”

“Of course, Britt,” Santana nodded, squeezing her best friend’s hand and cutting another withering glare to Rastaban at the same time. “Now, where is that waiter? I’m hungry and the food better be more than the fancy morsel sized shit these posh places usually serve.”

Rastaban didn’t reply verbally, but he caught their waiter’s eyes and subtly nodded, calling him over in hope to placate the fire-breathing monster sitting across him. Anthony was all false smiles and pleasantries while eying Santana’s obviously cheap dress with disdain. “We’d like to order,” Rastaban, the only one who noticed the look, stated coldly, immediately drawing the waiter’s full attention to him.

“Of course, of course! I would be more than glad to recommend-”

“We are perfectly capable of deciding for ourselves, thank you.” Anthony’s expression turned sour for a second at being interrupted, his professional mask slipping once again, but Rastaban had never tolerated it when adults tried to talk to him like he was a mindless toddler, acting patronising and all-knowing, and he was not going to start now. “Santana, Brittany, what would you like to eat?”

“I want eggplant cream soup with fresh toast and after that grilled goose liver filled with this posh foreign cheese and bacon on a vegetable bed and topped with plum sauce. And I want the vegetables to be cut like flowers,” Santana ordered tartly, her nose stuck in the air and somehow she managed to stare down the highly irritated waiter in spite of the height difference between them. “I’ll decide the dessert later.”

“Anything else?” Anthony asked, his smile stretched thin.

“Any chance I get real champagne?”

“We do not serve alcohol to underage guests.”

“Then no,” the girl huffed and turned to Brittany. “What do you think Britt?”

“I want spiral fries with a chocolate shake. And a huge chocolate sundae with strawberry sauce!” Anthony blanched at her demand, outraged by the gall of it. Rastaban watched the obstacle impassively, expecting the waiter to snap in any moment.

“Sorry little girl, but we at _La Pérre_ don’t serve plebeian trash like spiral fries and chocolate shake!” Anthony sniped scathingly, causing Brittany’s eyes to widen and gloss over with unshed tears. “If you want to eat such disgusting things, you should have gone to a common diner.”

Santana’s scowl was lethal as she wound her small arms around the blonde’s shoulders and all but snarled at the waiter. Yet, it wasn’t her attitude but Uncle Sirius’ stony expression that worried Rastaban. His uncle was a master of making spectacles and destroying high end facilities like _La Pérre_ when he was dissatisfied with something – personally, Rastaban thought it was the infamous Walburga’s teaching no matter how much Sirius denied it –, but this time it was Rastaban’s battle to fight, and if someone was going to destroy the restaurant’s reputation it would be him.

Instead of waiting for Uncle Sirius to get up and saunter over, saving the day by shooting of a load of clever insults, Rastaban softly cleared his throat, causing the red faced waiter to shot him a quick sideway glance, to what he lifted one of his brows; arrogant pureblood mask firmly in place. “It’s a pity,” he drawled, his tone bored and derisive at the same time, “because I want spiral fries and a chocolate shake too.”

“M-mr. Black?” Anthony stuttered, suddenly deathly pale. “I-I…”

“I’m not interested in your excuses. My companion and I want spiral fries and chocolate shake-”

“I want that too,” Santana piped in with a devilish smirk. “And stick as much fries in the shake as you can.”

“Then make it three extra large shakes with fries,” Rastaban nodded, daring the waiter to argue. “And if you have a problem with our order, I’m sure you’re capable to notify the manager. I would be more than delighted to have a chat with him.”

“It’s n-not n-necessary, Mr. Black,” Anthony stammered weakly, his eyes wide with fear. “I’m sure our chef will be happy to fulfill your request.”

“Very well. And don’t forget the sundae either.”

“Of course not!” The man hurried off, quickly disappearing behind the door that led to the kitchen allowing Rastaban to finally loosen his mask and turn his frigid smirk into a small smile.

“I’m not gonna thank you,” Santana said, her arms crossed over her chest, making Rastaban’s smile widen. She was still an ill-mannered, conceited little chit, but he had to admit she possessed a kind of crude charm that almost made her endearing.

“Of course not,” He shrugged and sent his uncle a quick nod of reassurance to what Sirius grinned widely, pride and eagerness shining in his grey eyes. “I’m aware that you’re above such menial notions.”

But later that night, after the horrible experience of tasting chocolate and grease and salt laden potato at the same time, Santana turned to him and planted a firm kiss on his cheek just as she and Brittany got out of the car in front of Brittany’s home. “You’re still super lame with your big words and guard dogs, but I guess I could learn to tolerate you. Or whatever,” she stated with her trademark scowl curling her lips and Rastaban couldn’t help but laugh quietly at her rude offer of friendship.

“That’s very gracious of you,” was his answer, earning a sneer. “Have a good night. You too Brittany.”

“Dream of sweet princesses, Prince Charming!” Brittany chirped, waving her hand excitedly. “Just not Sleeping Beauty, ‘k?”

“I would never do such travesty,” Rastaban agreed, his gaze never leaving Santana’s pretty face. “After all, Sleeping Beauty had already found her Princess Charming.”

“Get lost, asshole!” the brunette growled and slammed the car door with more force than one would expect from a girl her size.

“Feisty little thing, isn’t she?” Sirius laughed from the driver’s seat. “What a pity that her heart is already taken. Would have made the perfect Lady Black.” Rastaban just sighed in exasperation at his uncle’s immaturity.

“Why don’t you tell me about your plans to woo Lord Nott instead of spinning rumours like an old Knockturn Alley hag?” he retorted, quickly shutting the older wizard up who spent the rest of the drive in silence, confirming Rastaban’s theories about him not being sure if it was really a sound idea to court Thaddeus.


	7. Part VII. - Uncanny Resemblances

**_ Part VII – Uncanny Resemblances _ **

****

** 31 July 2006, Central Park, New York City, New York **

It would have been Harry Potter’s fourteenth birthday if the boy had survived the Dark Lord’s attack, Sirius mused melancholically as he watched his nephew hold his small court on a properly enchanted blanket while sipping tea and eating some biscuit from a nearby bench. He traded a glance with his brother, smiling a wan smile to match Regulus’ soft understanding tilt of lips.

“He loves you no matter what you call him,” Regulus said, entwining their fingers in a rare show of affection.

“I know,” Sirius sighed and felt foolish for burdening himself with the ghosts of the irreversible past. Still, the thoughts didn’t leave him and, away from his father’s penetrating gaze and barely rational expectations, he finally felt secure enough to voice them. “I just feel like I’m losing him. He carries less and less of James in him with each passing day and it just... hurts.”

“You can’t expect him to be like James when he never knew the man,” Regulus replied gently, and while it wasn’t anything Sirius didn’t know, saying it out loud made it seem real. “Rastaban is his own person and one day he is going to be one of the most powerful wizards in our history. He is going to rule this world and stop the Degradation, as father says,” he spat the last part, venom lacing his voice so viciously that Sirius couldn’t help but stare at his usually refined and soft-spoken baby brother.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he murmured tightening his hold on the other’s hand. “And father adores him with all his heart.”

“Don’t I know?” Regulus’ tone was bitter and resigned. “Father wants what is best for all of us, yet I can’t help but wish my son was nothing but a simple child with mediocre talent who can enjoy his childhood to its full extend.”

“And then he does something unimaginable like transfiguring a quill into a raven without the need of a wand, and you just have to admire him and realise that you wouldn’t change a thing in spite of all the pain you have to endure simply watching as he grows up without being a child once,” Sirius added solemnly, perfectly understanding his sibling’s feelings. “You know, I still call him Harry sometimes,” he whispered, his grey eyes glued to the regal face of his nephew. “And he just smiles in a way that tells me that he has known every secret we’ve been trying to hide from him for a long time. He has never asked why I call him a different name, yet it’s getting more difficult to call him that name because he is not my little Harry anymore.”

“But you continue to do so because you’re afraid you will forget James and Harry and your friendship if you stop.” Regulus nodded. “But what about Lupin? He was always there with you...”

“He moved to the continent to run with a pack there. He is happy if his letters are any indications, but he could never replace James.” It was hard to admit the truth after endless years of deluding himself, clinging to Remus’ letters and company like a lifeline as he ignored the black gaping hole in his heart.

“I always wondered if you–”

“If I what?”

“If you had been in love with James.” The words were only breathed but brought back long forgotten and bittersweet memories of almost forged marriage contracts and stolen kisses that never meant anything in the end, because Lily was there, her presence impending and magnificent, robbing Sirius of James’ attention whenever she appeared.

“Father and Aunt Dorea had drawn up a marriage contract when we were fifteen,” he confessed quietly, refusing to look at his brother. “And I loved him with the very core of my soul, but it wasn’t enough and eventually I gave up and ran away from home.”

“But you said you stayed with James!” Regulus gasped. “You said you were safe.”

“Mother was quick to disinherit me and as a disgrace to the family, the contract was destroyed before James could have known of its existence,” Sirius continued as if he hadn’t heard the other wizard. “I was safe and stayed at Uncle Alphard’s house sometimes visiting James in secret until we were discovered and had to tell everything to Aunt Dorea.”

“She was a brilliant witch and I remember we couldn’t hide anything from her,” Regulus mused, leaning heavily against Sirius’ side in support and comfort.

“She understood my insane reasoning, even if it was obvious that she was livid and effused to accept a ‘mudblood’ into her family.” Sirius chuckled sadly, shaking his head as he remembered his aunt’s glowing green-grey irises as he told her about Lily Evans and James’ infatuation.

“You know, she never accepted Evans and refused to speak to her whenever James and she visited,” Regulus said with a fond half-smile of his own. “She was all too eager to share her thoughts with Father whenever he asked her about James, yet unlike Mother, she never lost her dignity and was a sight to behold.”

“Mother was always insanely jealous of her despite the age difference between them,” Sirius snorted softly.

“Well, she was a strikingly beautiful woman and she was extremely close to Father...”

“You’re worse than those gossipy old hags back in Diagon Alley,” Sirius smirked, earning a glare from his brother. “To me, it was always obvious that Aunt Dorea loved Uncle Charlus deeply and even if Father hated Mother, he would have never thought of pursuing Dorea.”

“Rastaban is just like her in many ways,” Regulus commented watching his son who was smiling at whatever the Nott Heir was telling him.

“She would have adored him,” Sirius agreed with a nod.

“She fell in love with him even though she only saw him once, a few days after his birth. She and Uncle Charlus came by the very same day, and she was practically glowing with pride and happiness.”

“That child has a way to wrap people around his little finger without an effort. He is really close to Theodore Nott.” Sirius smile turned into a frown and he finally turned toward his sibling, silently asking for explanation.

“Young Theodore is a bright child and just as reserved as Rastaban,” Regulus answered and it was obvious he was pleased with the turn of events. “Not to mention he is going to be family...”

“If this is an attempt to worm information out of me, you failed spectacularly, dear brother,” Sirius grinned mockingly, but sobered almost instantly when the other man’s gaze didn’t waver. “Thad is not James,” he admitted finally, refusing to turn away in shame for hanging so desperately to the past.

“Of course not, he is younger and can never replace your best friend and first love. The question is, can you learn to love him?”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but refrained from scoffing. “It doesn’t matter, According to Father I have to bond with him next year whether I like him or not.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Regulus pressed, making Sirius frown.

“He is beautiful and kind, and I... I’m already falling, yet at the same time I can’t bear the thought of loving someone else,” he admitted, trying and failing to hide the confusion and pain from his voice.

“It has been nearly thirteen years since he died, Sirius. It’s not a crime to move on and let someone else in,” his brother stated reassuringly, but Sirius could only purse his lips and turn away from those way too caring charcoal irises.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said after a minute of silence. “I have some news you might find interesting.”

It was obvious that Regulus didn’t like the idea of him retreating behind his walls, but instead of pushing for more, he accepted his decision and asked, “What kind of news?”

“Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament this year.”

There were another few minutes of silence while Regulus only stared at him in disbelief, his face ashen and his expression horrified. “Are they trying to kill the children deliberately? I thought that after the tragedy of Arthur Weasley’s daughter Dumbledore would learn from his mistakes.”

“As if!” Sirius scoffed. “But guess who has been asked to attend the magnificent event as special guests?”

“He didn’t...”

“Oh, he did. The invitation arrived this morning and Father is considering attending.”

“Rastaban is not going,” Regulus stated, and just by looking at his determined face, Sirius knew their father would have one hell of a fight if he planned showing Rastaban the scenery of Scotland. “I will not allow it.”

Sirius smirked in smug delight at his brother’s strength and willpower, but instead of answering, he turned back to the chattering group of teens and watched as his nephew easily manipulated, Lucius’ upstart little bugger of a son into submission and obedience. He felt immensely proud and devastated at the same time because he remembered James’ inability to manipulate which was just another proof how little resemblance remained between him and the green eyed little boy.

  **1 September 2006, Emmerson Junior High School, Lima, Ohio**

“Rastaban!” Rastaban turned in the direction of the freaky screech only to be tackled by a small but powerful bundle of atrocious colour.

“Rachel,” he groaned softly, pushing the annoying Muggle girl off him. “Please, refrain from doing such inappropriate things.”

“Oh, shush you! We’re friends and friends are entitled to hug each other!” Rachel reproached indignantly, but with a huge smile on her face. “I can’t believe we’re finally going to be classmates! You have to sit next to me and of course we’re going to eat lunch together–”

“Quiet,” Rastaban commanded, glaring at his... friend, even though he would rather call the girl his enemy. Maybe that way she wouldn’t cling to him all the time. “We are going to be late and you are causing a scene.”

Rachel looked around them, blushing hotly at the incredulous stares and outright laughter coming from the other students and the jocks who weren’t afraid to shoot insults at them.

“’Sup Black? Trouble in paradise?” one of the burly boys taunted, wearing a stupid and menacing grin that indicated that he was more than satisfied with his pathetic barb.

“Yeah, Black, finally realised what a worthless and ugly little bitch, Berry is?” added a dark skinned boy, who had been in Rastaban’s class back in elementary school.

Rachel’s lower lip trembled slightly and she lowered her head a bit, but Rastaban only rolled his eyes and sneered at the brainless thugs. “I wonder where your places are on the imaginary food chain if you call Rachel worthless. But then again, with facial features like yours I doubt you are even listed amongst us humans.”

His insult took a while to be digested by the dumb fools, which gave him and Rachel enough time to leave the scene and head for their classroom. He ignored the grateful glances and the hand squeezes Rachel bestowed upon him and chose a desk next to familiar looking and well dressed boy.

“Oh, hey Kurt,” Rachel greeted the boy who shot her a derisive glance, a frown curling his lips.

“Please, don’t talk to me, your absolute lack of fashion sense has already ruined my appetite for the day,” he replied, his unique green-grey-blue eyes sweeping over her admittedly horrible attire screaming of disgust.

“I don’t care what you say, my clothes are perfectly fashionable,” she huffed, crossing her arms in front of her still flat chest and effectively letting Rastaban’s hand go.

“If you’re a hobo or blind, sure,” Kurt shot back, plastering a fake smile on his face. “Now why don’t you do us all a favour and ask your clearly more talented friend for some advice in the fashion department? And stop being rude and introduce us already.”

Rastaban was amused by the Muggle boy’s sharp tongue. It reminded him of Draco, but unlike with his cousin, he was more amused than annoyed. Not to mention, Kurt was the first muggle child who had enough manners to know how to interact with possible new acquaintances.

Unfortunately, Rachel was too busy gaping in outrage to comply, which caused Rastaban to heave a sigh and offer his right hand. “Please, forgive her appalling behaviour, I’m Rastaban Lycoris Black of the House of Black, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Kurt looked taken aback by the overly formal way he introduced himself, but Rastaban refused to give up proper decorum just because he was surrounded by classless ruffians with no magic or appropriate sense of... well anything. But unlike most of his peers, the brown haired boy took his hand and, after a moment of frozen silence, he even offered a small smile.

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, the pleasure is all mine,” he said, his hold strong but not posturing.

“Rastaban! How can you smile and chitchat with him after he insulted me so horribly?!” Rachel shrieked angrily, drawing their other classmates attention to them.

“I’d appreciate if you lowered your voice, Rachel Berry,” Rastaban drawled coldly. “I’m pretty sure you are more than competent enough to fight your own battles.”

“But you defended me against Azimio and Dave!” she snapped. “I thought we were friends and maybe–”

“I refuse to have this conversation in a room full of leering gossipmongers,” Rastaban retorted snidely. “However, you would do well not to question me again, Rachel, because while I might tolerate your presence and innate nagging, and maybe even think of you as a friend, I’m my own person and can do as I please.”

The girl’s brown eyes glazed over with tears and pain. She turned away from him and refused to talk to him for the rest of the day. Kurt turned out to be a quite entertaining and ambitious boy who wanted to be either a fashion designer or a Broadway star, which amused the Black Heir to no end. In Rastaban’s opinion, he was worth offering his friendship in spite of his blood status and the acidic tongue he had on him, which Kurt wasn’t afraid to use when needed... and sometimes even when it wasn’t needed.

  **5 October 2006, Black House, Lima, Ohio**

Orion Black was a really unhappy man at the moment thanks to the growing rumours about the frozen Potter accounts that were waiting for their rightful heir to claim them. He nearly hexed Sirius when his son gravely informed him of the mistake one of the Ministry’s useless little lapdogs made two days ago, and now they not only had to evade the hounding reporters that demanded answers from his older child, but had to worry about that barmy old codger Dumbledore’s increased sniffing too.

The incessant old man even dared to send him a letter in which he not so subtly fished for information on Rastaban, just like he had been doing for the last two years, since they had refused to send the child off to that dreadful castle.

As if a prodigy like his grandson could learn anything from those blubbering excuses of light wizards and witches. He even had doubts about Maximilian’s half-blood grandson, but the boy was close to Regulus and even Lucius supported the idea of Severus Snape becoming Rastaban’s Potions tutor. And to the dour little brat’s credit he had proven to be an adequate teacher so far.

They had vowed to keep Rastaban safe when Sirius had brought him to their home, and a delusional half-blood like Dumbledore could never get his gnarled old hands on their beloved child, no matter how much power the dear headmaster held over the British Wizarding World.

Orion’s hand crumbled the emerald ink covered parchment in a fit of rage at the thought of Dumbledore and his plans, his dark grey gaze burning metaphorical holes into the latest edition of the Daily Prophet in which the ancient bastard was vehemently refusing the rumours about Harry Potter being alive.

“Maybe you should hold a press conference,” Lucius suggested mildly. He was seated in a luxurious leather armchair, sipping a glass of honeyed brandy, seemingly unperturbed about being ignored by Orion. “After all, _you_ are the closest relative of the Potters.”

“You think?” Orion’s tone was scathing, blazing eyes forcing the younger lord’s gaze into submission. “And what do _you_ suggest I should tell them?”

The blond held up his hands in surrender, but his expression remained cold and calculating. He was becoming better at hiding his emotions, the Black Lord noted absently.

“I know that you are wondering too, Lucius,” he said when his companion didn’t reply. “You might be able to conceal your thoughts and emotions more easily, but your eyes give your doubts and questions away. You might even be looking for proofs...” he trailed off still staring at Malfoy unwaveringly.

The fair haired wizard’s jaw clenched, yet he managed to keep his voice smooth. “I would never betray you and your family,” he stated solemnly.

“Your heir and wife are Blacks, Lucius, of course you would never think about betraying your own blood,” Orion purred dangerously, showing a glimpse of the man whom not even Voldemort dared to cross. “However, you, as everyone else, are only _human_.”

It was obvious that Lucius wanted to retort, but was wise enough to keep his remarks to himself. “You have to admit, young Rastaban bears an uncanny resemblance to the late Lady Potter,” he said placatingly.

“You are playing with fire, child,” Orion answered, his chin resting lazily on the top of his steepled fingers. “But have it your way.” Lucius’ silver eyes flashed with satisfaction, causing a small cruel smile to tilt Orion’s lips. “I will allow you one chance to prove your trustworthiness.”

The smugness instantly dissolved in the light gaze and despite his best efforts, Lucius’ young aristocratic features darkened. “I think I have proven my worth and loyalty to _our_ family several times in the past.”

“That you have done, child,” Orion admitted. “However, at the moment, we are talking about more than simple political games.”

Silence settled over them for minutes as unbreakable wills clashed and fought a seemingly endless battle. Young, barely there rashness tore into decades of experience, yet was not enough to wear the proud Black Lord down, forcing Malfoy to bow once again, to bow his head in submission before the greater power.

Orion’s much darker irises turned pitch black, as his magic and pupils devoured even the white of his eyes. He didn’t call his niece’s husband out on his lost challenge; inwardly he was proud of the boy. After all, not many wizards had been able to call forward the full force of his magic in a Battle of Wills like Lucius had just done.

So instead of reprimanding him for his cheek, Orion slowly tilted his head in a gesture that was frighteningly similar to his grandson’s and drawled, “I want information, Lucius. Bring me the name of the fool who is the reason for all the hindrance we have to endure. Bring me the whispers, the crumbles, every titbit of petty gossip that flies within the dirty borders of Britain.”

“You ask too much.”

“You have that useless clown of a Minister in your pocket and you have the connections you need to find out what we need,” Orion countered easily, knowing that he trapped the younger man.

“As you wish, Patriarch Black,” Lucius spat, clearly riled from losing yet another verbal fight against the elder Lord. “And now if you excuse me, I have some errands to run.”

Orion watched as the overly proud wizard stood up and with a last curt nod stalked to the fireplace like a big angry cat that was ready to rip anything apart that dared cross its way and disappeared in the green flames. A small, barely visible smile played on the black haired wizard’s lips, but his eyes remained black and glowed with dark, seductive magic.

“You have no idea just how much that child resembles to dear Dorea,” he whispered to the empty room. “No idea at all.”

Dumbledore’s letter lit up like beacon and burned, burned, burned to black ashes until nothing reminded Orion of the jovially manipulating and coercing words that used to fill the once creamy parchment.

Albus Dumbledore might have been able to mould things to his own liking for decades, but his days as the unofficial leader of Wizarding Britain were counted.

  **6 November 2006, Emmerson Junior High School, Lima, Ohio**

“Computers were invented for a reason, you know,” Kurt commented from behind Rastaban’s back, causing Rastaban to look up from the letter he was writing.

“To break Enigma back in the 40’s, yes,” Rastaban replied, smirking up at his friend. “Writing letters by hand is more personal, don’t you think?”

Kurt rolled his eyes and pulled a chair out for himself to sit down at the scratched, wooden library table. He looked down at the creamy parchment lying in front of Rastaban and Rastaban didn’t even try to hide his smile at the way Kurt’s eyes widened. Using real parchment, quill and ink to write letters in the 21st century when everyone was immersed in their phones and computers must have seemed alien to the other boy.

“When I first saw that you don’t have a TV or a computer, I thought your father must be one of those old-fashioned parents who think that modern communication devices are the sources of everything evil. But this goes beyond that,” Kurt ranted, his hands gesturing wildly. “You actually know how to write in calligraphy and use quills. Real, working quills not the fake ones with ballpoint pen hidden in them.”

“Yes, Kurt,” Rastaban nodded patiently. “I also can dance, I’m a five times national fencing champion and speak five other languages besides English. It’s called receiving a meticulous education.”

“No, Ras, that’s called being filthy rich with a brain.” They grinned at each other before Kurt arched one of his brows and nodded towards Rastaban’s letter. “Who are you writing to?”

“One of my dear friends in Britain.” Rastaban paused to consider how much to tell Kurt about the information Theodore had shared with him in his last letter. They were slowly becoming close, closer than Rastaban had ever been to any of his muggle acquaintances. “There is an international championship going on at his school between three schools. One of our mutual acquaintances have been chosen to compete.”

“It must be nice. Being surrounded by foreign cultures or just culture for that matter,” Kurt replied, sighing wistfully. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Always.”

“I honestly don’t get it why your dad decided to move to this cowtown. I’ve read that article in _People’s Magazine_ last year, you know. Your family is related to the British royal family. You could be king one day, yet you’re sitting here, in this boring, outdated library, writing a letter on parchment paper with a quill as if it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“At least 80 people would have to die for me to receive the crown including my grandfather, uncle and father. It means nothing,” Rastaban said, but refrained from shrugging his shoulders because his tutor in protocol and etiquette placed a monitoring charm on his person that sent a sharp jolt down his spine every time he acted ‘uncouthly’. “As for living in Lima, it’s quiet and mostly friendly. And there is a positive side of people being uncultured Neanderthals as you like to call them. They don’t really know who we are.”

“And that’s why I think you’re crazy. I can’t wait to get out of this hellhole and get to New York!” Kurt’s eyes were shining and his cheeks flushed in excitement. “Becoming the next big name on Broadway or making a name for myself in the fashion industry, it’s all I dream about.”

“With hard-work and an appropriate sponsor, you might have the world eating out of your hands.”

Kurt’s face turned scarlet at the compliment and he lowered his gaze to hide his embarrassment even as a wide smile curled his lips. A second later, however, his eyes widened and he looked up to stare at Rastaban in horror.

“What do you mean by appropriate sponsor? And where can I find one?” he asked.

“A sponsor is someone who helps you on your way to achieve your success. They are usually well-known in high society and choose to spend their wealth on supporting artists. They’re often called patrons too,” Rastaban explained, frowning when he saw the way Kurt’s lips turned down. “What’s the problem?”   

“Who would ever notice me, a boy from Nowhere, Ohio when there are thousands of talented young artist just in New York alone?” Kurt said bitterly. “No one in their right mind would choose me over a kid with real connections.”

“Not with that kind of attitude, for sure. Why would anyone believe in you, if you didn’t believe in yourself?”

“I…” Kurt faltered and bit into his lower lip. “You’re right. I have to believe in myself and in that I can achieve my dreams. Even if others try to tear me down for being better than them.”

“You do realise that learning self-defence would help you get rid of the bullies, right?”

“Why should I? I have my very own bodyguard who always saves me from those apes.” Kurt smirked, causing Rastaban to roll his eyes then promptly wince from the jolt that ran down his spine.

“I can’t always be there to protect you.”

“It’s not something I can’t handle.”

“If you say so.”

“Put away that sceptic look, I’m fine and will continue to be fine. Those brainless nobodies can’t touch me,” Kurt huffed. “Which reminds me, did you hear that Lopez just broke up with Puck? In front of everyone during lunch.”

“I don’t really follow the current social news of this school, and as I haven’t seen Santana since yesterday, no I can’t say I’ve heard of this spectacular event,” Rastaban answered without the slightest hint of interest in his tone. “I also highly doubt that this Puck appreciates being talked about behind his back.”

“Who cares if he appreciates it or not. He’s the biggest jerk this school has ever seen. There are rumours about him sleeping with senior high schoolers. And I heard one of the cheerleaders tell her friends that Puck’s already drinking.”

“If that’s really the case, someone should notify the authorities, because Statutory Rape and Underage Drinking are crimes. This is one of the reasons I don’t condone gossiping. It can cause serious problems for others besides hurting their feelings.” That sobered Kurt up quickly and he was looking quite cowed by the time Rastaban was done with his little speech. “Even if he’s a jerk, this Puck is still a thirteen-year-old boy with feelings that can get easily hurt. Or maybe have been already hurt, which is why he’s acting out.” He raised a hand when Kurt opened his mouth to interrupt. “I’m not saying, it’s okay to hurt others just because you’re hurt, but making up stories and talking about someone behind his back just to get back at them is almost as bad.”

“Then what do you suggest? Because talking to him doesn’t work. Believe me, I tried,” Kurt countered archly.

“You don’t have to be nice to him.”

“I didn’t plan to be. He’s unbearable. But I can’t solve my problems by beating up my enemies, at least not without getting in trouble.”

“Who would believe it that you won against a bunch of meaty football players?”

“Are you calling me weak?”

“No, I’m calling you slender and delicately built, which are very good traits in this case. Try joining the karate club or the judo club and the so called kings of the school will get out of your way,” Rastaban said with a smile. “Also, it’ll help with your flexibility, and I bet your father would be thrilled, too.”

“That’s playing dirty and you know it, Ras” Kurt answered with a half-hearted glare.

Rastaban had only met Mr. Hummel a couple of times, but while the man adored his son, it was obvious they were both struggling to build a real connection that was based on something stronger than their familial love and their interest in cars. And it might have been somewhat wrong of Rastaban to use this knowledge against Kurt, but if it got him what he wanted, he couldn’t really care about slightly hurt feelings. Because Kurt’s safety came first and it was important that he learnt to take care of himself properly.

“Did it work?” Rastaban asked, smirking lightly.

Kurt only folded his arms in front of his chest and pursed his lips into a thin line, but that was an answer in itself for Rastaban. He turned back to his letter, ready to finish it before the bell rang.   

 **24 November 2006, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland**  

The breathing, vibrating magic that surrounded the ancient castle mesmerised Rastaban even before the abraxan-pulled carriage rolled through the front gates. Hogwarts was everything he had ever heard about the school, and he had to close his eyes for a second when the full power of the castle’s magic washed over him. For a moment, he grieved the loss of never having the chance to be surrounded by the majesty of such old and strong magic, but then he remembered Theodore’s and Draco’s complaints about the incompetence of the teachers and the headmaster’s favouritism, and he couldn’t really feel bad about staying in the States and being tutored privately.

He looked over at his Uncle Sirius, whose expression, while carefully schooled into a neutral mask, was etched with sadness. It must have been hard for him to come back to the school where he had spent the happiest seven years of his life only to have it all taken away from him by an insane megalomaniac, who had cared about nothing besides conquering the British Wizarding World and destroying everyone who dared oppose him. Still, Sirius opted to accompany Rastaban and Orion on this trip, especially when it was revealed that Uncle Lucius would be there as well.

It made Rastaban think, not for the first time, about the barely restrained animosity between Sirius and Lucius. The Malfoys had been one of the most loyal supporters of Voldemort, or so the rumours and papers had everyone believe that. And it might have been even true, after all, Abraxas Malfoy had been close friends with Tom Riddle back when they were both mere schoolboys, but Abraxas had died from Dragon Pox years before Voldemort’s fall, and by the time the trials had started, no one had been able to prove Lucius’ or his wife’s involvement at all. The same was true for the Flints, the Rosiers and even the Notts before Theodore’s father had died, yet they all had come out of the ordeal unscathed and maybe even more powerful than before.

He had heard the whispers about his father’s supposed initiation into the circle of the infamous Death Eaters, too, of course.  The vultures of High Society loved nothing more than to badmouth those whom they envied, and they rarely were considerate enough to mind talking about such delicate issues around children. Or maybe, they got a kick out of knowing they had managed to plant the seeds of doubt in the minds of impressionable young wizards and witches who had only seen their parents and family as infallible and perfect before. It had almost worked on Rastaban too. When he had first heard two witches gossip about his father’s involvement in the Dark Lord’s army, he had been shocked and wanted nothing more than to demand answers.

He had been barely twelve years old, and it might have been overlooked if he had made a spectacle out of himself in front of all the guest gathered in the Nott Manor. Yet he had waited until the end of the ball before he had rounded on his father. His papa had reacted with resignation and drawn him into his lap before he had told Rastaban about Walburga’s failed attempt to sell him off to Voldemort. Learning about the extent his grandfather had gone just to ensure his son’s safety, arranging his wife’s death only a couple of months later and outright declaring the House of Black neutral in the ongoing war and living to tell the tale had been a real eye-opener for Rastaban.

Of course he had known that his grandfather was a very influential and powerful wizard, one not even Dumbledore dared trifle with, at least not openly, but to go against someone as unpredictable as Voldemort had had to take a generous amount of bravery or craziness. Especially because not having the support of the Black House also meant that Voldemort had lost several other Pure Blooded followers who had been more afraid of the consequences of crossing the infamous Black Patriarch than the wrath of a self-appointed warlord who had been chasing unattainable illusions. In Rastaban’s eyes, the very fact that Voldemort hadn’t even tried to force Orion’s hand into joining him or kill him was enough proof of the Dark Lord’s weakness.

Yet, Voldemort had been still able to deliver his revenge against the Black family even if he had done it without realising the real weigh of his actions. He killed the Potters, causing one of the oldest British pureblood families to die out and shattering Sirius’ already cracked heart into million pieces. Naturally, Rastaban knew about the discarded marriage contract between his uncle and James Potter; reading through every document stored in the Black Library had taught him more than mere theories on magic. And it hadn’t been hard to figure out that it had been Sirius who asked for the annulment of the contract because he had loved his best friend more than to force himself on him.

Glancing once again at his uncle, it was easy for him to see the marks grief had left on Sirius’ face; his eyes were lined with fine crow feet, while her mouth was framed by bitter lines, giving him the illusion of a strict, severe man. But at the same time, even through the sadness shining in his eyes, he seemed much happier and almost serene. As if he had finally come to terms with the reality of losing the love of his life and his best friend, and was ready to move on. Ready to finally accept that humans, not even magical ones, were not programmed to find love only once in their lives.

Rastaban allowed his lips to curl up slightly as he turned back towards the majestic castle. There was no delegation waiting for them as they pulled up to the giant front doors, but neither Uncle Lucius nor Rastaban’s grandfather seemed bothered by it. They left the carriage, and up close, Rastaban was nearly sent to his knees by the sheer force of Hogwarts’ magic. His breath hitched as the ancient power seeped into his bones, brushing against his own magic in welcome.

“Breathtaking, isn’t she?” Uncle Sirius asked, placing one of his hands against the small of Rastaban’s back to steady him. “It’s such a pity she cannot enjoy the respect she deserves anymore.”

“She’s magnificent,” Rastaban answered in reverence even as he cautiously let his magic slip through his fingers and offer his gratitude for the warm welcome. “And one day she’ll be appreciated and loved by her children once again.”

“Just as she should,” added Orion, his grey eyes glittering with pride. “Now, shall we go in? I’m sure you want to surprise your cousin and friends before the task begins.”

“Ah, so Uncle Lucius haven’t told Draco about out arrival?” Rastaban asked, raising a challenging eyebrow at Lucius, who smiled a cool, but amused smile in response.

“Why would I spoil my little nephew’s fun?” he questioned silkily. “Showing you’re actually still a child is such a rare occurrence after all.”

“And of course it has nothing to do with your own carefully hidden mischievous side, does it, Uncle Lucius?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Sirius interjected with a nasty smirk. “With you being the epitome of innocence and all.”

“I really hope you don’t plan to continue this conversation,” Rastaban’s grandfather cut in before Lucius could have replied. Both men instantly shut up even though Orion’s words were delivered casually, and it made Rastaban hide a smirk in the collar of his cloak before he raised his head high and stepped through the door that opened for them to the first touch of Orion’s hand.

The entrance hall was grand and decorated with wizarding paintings and old suits of armours that turned their heads in their direction when they walked in. They didn’t stop to look around, however, as Orion lead them towards a set of double doors that were opened as if someone was expecting them.

Walking into the great hall felt like walking into a dream to Rastaban. The enchanted ceiling mirroring the weather outside couldn’t hold a candle to the myriad of colours flashing before his eyes and brushing against his cheeks. He had never experienced the effect so many different magical cores all at once before, and he itched to reach out and explore every one of them. Most of them were bright and pure, having an innocent feel to them, but some were greedy and twisted, swirling around Rastaban like predators circled their prey.

The noise level dropped the moment the student body noticed their arrival, and Rastaban didn’t even need to look to know that everyone was staring at him and his companions. From the corner of his eye, he could see as a tall, powerful, but obviously aged figure stood up, silently commanding attention even as he put on a mask of jovial confusion.

“Patriarch Black, we weren’t expecting you,” Albus Dumbledore stated lightly, causing excited whispering to break out all around the room.

“We are only here to watch the First Task and show my grandson around in our old Alma Mater. I’m sure you wouldn’t deprive a young wizard of such delight,” Orion replied just as cordially, but Rastaban could see the icy hatred in his stormy gaze.

“What a splendid idea! Maybe a tour around Hogwarts will change your mind about your decision to carry young Rastaban’s education out on your own.” Dumbledore’s smile widened while his strangely sparkling sky blue eyes watched Rastaban for any reaction like a hawk.

“We’ll see. Although, the _headmaster_ of a prestigious school like Hogwarts allowing himself liberties like addressing the heir of a noble, pureblood family who hasn’t been officially introduced to Society in such familiar way certainly does not work in your favour.” Rastaban wasn’t sure he had ever heard a clearer rejection than those words before.

“Ah, forgive an old man for being forgetful. I intended no offense,” Dumbledore lied smoothly, trying his best to come out on top from the verbal duel. “May we offer our school’s provisions to squelch your hunger?”

“That is most gracious of you. I’m sure young Draco and the Slytherin House will be more than happy to accommodate us for the day.” Orion didn’t wait for the headmaster’s permission before he turned towards one of the long tables where the students were doing their best to look poised and aloof under the scrutiny of such highly respected guests.

Rastaban noticed his cousin the moment he turned toward the Slytherin table. Draco’s eyes were wide, but his expression remained closed off otherwise, which was a great improvement compared to his attitude even just a few months before. He was sitting between Viktor Krum and Blaise with Theodore, who turned around to see what was happening, seated across from them. Rastaban recognised a few other students at the table as well as at the other tables, but he kept his focus on Draco and his friends.

“Draco,” Lucius greeted his son when Draco stood up alongside with his housemates to welcome the Blacks and Lucius with the respect they deserved.

“Father, I’m glad you’ve found the time to visit,” Draco replied, clasping his father’s offered hand. “Patriarch Black, Uncle Sirius, Rastaban, welcome to Hogwarts. We’ll do everything in our power to make your stay a pleasant one.”

Rastaban’s grandfather nodded approvingly, placing one of his hands on Draco’s shoulder, whose cheeks pinked with pleasure from the praise. “Thank you, Draco. We are looking forward to spending some time in your and your peers’ company.”

“We’re grateful for the hospitality,” Sirius echoed with his best public smile plastered onto his face. “Being back to Hogwarts certainly brings back some memories.”

“It’s the least we can do, Uncle Sirius.”

“Good to see you, Draco,” Rastaban spoke up, offering his own hand once his uncle stepped back. “And you as well Theodore and Blaise.” He shook hands with both boys, sharing a fond look with Theo, before he turned to Viktor. “I think congratulations are in order,” he said, offering a polite smile. “And good luck, of course. I’m looking forward to your victory.”

“Thank you.” Viktor nodded and returned Rastaban’ smile with his own reserved one. “I haff hoped that you vould be here.”

That surprised Rastaban slightly. He peered up at the older boy, gauging his expression for clues about what he had meant by saying those words. But Viktor’s face was carefully blank, his deep set dark eyes looking down at Rastaban impassively. Looking at him, Rastaban had to admit that he was a roughly handsome boy even if his posture was horrible and his shoulders were rounded. He had strong, noble features and a heavy set of brows that matched his thick, dark hair. He also was the sole heir of one of the noblest and most powerful Bulgarian wizarding families, not to mention, he was intelligent and very polite if his letters were anything to go by. So objectively speaking, Viktor Krum would make a very good suitor for Rastaban, if the older boy was implying such things, yet Rastaban could not see himself building a working relationship with him.

“I’m certain you would win the tournament even if I didn’t come, but I’m glad you find my presence reassuring,” Rastaban said, settling on being gently teasing in his answer instead of looking for hidden meanings where might be none.

There were a few chuckles around them from those who heard his reply and it seemed to break the tension too, because Rastaban’s grandfather finally sat down. Uncle Sirius and Lucius followed his example, picking a seat emptied for them by the students at the centre of the table, while Rastaban chose to sit with his friends, listening to their tales and chattering in contentment. He hadn’t realised how much he had actually missed Theodore and even Draco and Blaise until they saw them barely holding up their masks in their excitement to finally being able to talk to him in person instead only through letters.

“I’m aware I should support Diggory, after all when to show loyalty to your school if not when there is an international tournament going on, but he is not worthy of the Hogwarts’ Champion title,” Draco said, disdain lacing his words. “Flint would have been a much more logical not to mention better choice or even Davis.”

“The Goblet chose Diggory for a reason,” Theodore argued.

“Just because you’re enamoured with his pretty face, it doesn’t mean he is competent at anything,” Draco sniped coldly earning a harsh glare from Theo.

“Actually, Theo is right,” Rastaban cut in calmly. “Being powerful magically and ready to use any means possible to win does not bring certain victory. One needs to have a certain desperation in themselves to be able to succeed.”

His explanation was met by contemplative silence, before Draco smirked and said, “Well, no one can say that Hufflepuffs are not eager to please.”

His comment was met by dark smirks and laughter from his peers, but Rastaban noticed the irritated glare Lucius sent his son as well as the disapproving frown that marred his grandfather’s face. They were not happy with Draco’s smart mouth, not that Rastaban couldn’t understand them. It was one thing to play games with others while they were present, but disparaging them behind their backs, perfectly knowing they would hear about it later was petty and not worthy of the heir of one of the most powerful pureblood houses.

Still, he remained silent and continued to eat his breakfast. Draco, while his cousin, wasn’t really his responsibility.

**______________________________**

“Is it true that Evan Rosier asked for the Black Patriarch’s permission to court Regulus Black?” a blonde, moderately pretty witch asked Pansy Parkinson in not at all veiled curiosity, causing Rastaban who was sitting only two rows behind them to narrow his eyes.

Choosing to sit with the Slytherins instead of the faculty was his Uncle Lucius’ suggestion, but if the frigid rage warring behind his silver eyes was anything to go by, he had already regretted it. Rastaban felt a slight wave of vindictive satisfaction wash over him at the sight; the man might have been doing his best to get into his good graces and Rastaban liked him well enough, but the knowledge that his father shared a one-sided bond with Lucius was enough for him to want to skin him alive. Such selfish act was unforgiveable and disgusting even if it was obvious that his uncle’s marriage to Narcissa was merely contractual.

Rastaban didn’t care that Lucius loved his father, because nothing could come out of his love while he was bonded to his wife. And unless he decided to find his spine and own up to his actions, the marriage contract between them would last until one of their deaths. Evan would be good to his papa. He adored Regulus and would have burnt the world to ashes just to see him happy, even if his attempts at flirting were usually too casual to be taken seriously. It would also teach Lucius that he couldn’t always get what he wanted, especially if he wasn’t ready to give instead of simply taking everything.

The man’s knuckles turned white around the handle of his cane when Parkinson pursed her lips into a thin line in disapproval, but not before nodding surreptitiously. The blonde witch gasped, her eyes wide as saucers.

“And he agreed? Oh, Merlin, please tell me, he agreed!” she whispered excitedly, but not softly enough for Rastaban and his uncle not to hear it.

“Are you out of your mind, Brown?!” Pansy snapped. “I can’t believe you have so little tact!”

“I’m just curious, is that such a crime?” Brown argued, folding her hands in front of her chest.

“It’s high time, your father hired a Protocol instructor for you. You’re a disgrace to every self-respecting pureblood witch.”

“Now that’s just harsh!  

“Shut your mouth and watch the Task!”

“They haven’t even come out yet? And who cares about some bloodthirsty beast?”

Parkinson turned towards the warded arena where the dragon keepers were bringing in a Swedish Short-Snout. Rastaban felt awed by the magnificent creature, a feeling that quickly turned to hatred when she saw that one of the handlers was levitating dragon eggs into a gigantic nest. He glanced at his grandfather who was watching the events unfold with keen eyes, then at his uncles who were equally outraged at the sight. Dragons were endangered species and to treat them and their eggs like meaningless toys was incomprehensible for Rastaban.

“Keep calm, my child,” Orion murmured, placing a gentle hand on Rastaban’s forearm. “Should any of the creatures or eggs suffer any damage, we’ll make sure the government won’t forget the consequences for a very long time.”

Rastaban nodded his head silently. He tried to focus on the enchantments the dragon keepers were casting on the dragon’s chains, but the Brown witch decided she didn’t like to be ignored and kept pestering Parkinson.

“You’re acquaintances with Rastaban, right? Were invited to the famous Black Yule Ball last December, weren’t you?” It was obvious that Brown was insanely jealous at Parkinson. “And the one before that, too.”

“My family is acquainted with the House of Black, yes. However, as the Black Heir hasn’t been introduced to the Society yet, I can’t say we’ve talked to more than a few words to each other,” Parkinson gritted out coldly.

“But you can admit that he’s gorgeous. Not that I’m surprised. Every member of his family is incredibly attractive.” Brown sighed dreamily. “Wish my family wasn’t so pig-headed and saw that following Dumbledore will lead us to nowhere.”

“I wouldn’t repeat those thoughts around the headmaster if I were you.”

“Yes, well, I’m not stupid. Not that it matters. I’m more interested in where Rastaban could have got his strange green eyes. All Black men have grey, right? Who is his mother, by the way?”

“For Morgana’s sake, would you stop it already?”

“I will the moment you answer my questions,” Brown said with a victorious smirk. “And ignoring me won’t do you any good.”

“I could just curse your tongue out.”

“But that would be unladylike.”

“Fine,” Parkinson hissed, trying to lower her voice even more. “It’s said that he inherited his eyes from the late Lady Potter, his great-aunt. As for his mother, no one talks about it, but I heard some rumours about some _foreign_ witch tricking Regulus Black then dying in childbirth, leaving the _Black Heir_ to be raised by his father.”

“Foreign witch? Who could it be?”

“I don’t know and it’s just a rumour. Some say though that the Black Heir was gifted to Regulus Black from Mother Magic herself, which would explain his incredible talent and affinity for magic.”

“And what about the rumours that he bears an uncanny resemblance to James Potter? I’ve heard some of the older Gryffindors whisper about on the way here.”

Rastaban has to use every drop of his willpower no to let his astonishment show on his face. He knew that he didn’t really look like his papa, but with his hair being carefully styled by potions and the lack of glasses, he never thought that anyone would see the similarities. Then again, they were supposedly second cousins once removed, so the resemblance wasn’t really that farfetched.  

“Considering James Potter was the Lady Potter’s only son and heir, it’s not that surprising,” Parkison echoes Rastaban’s thoughts.

“And what about the frozen Potter vaults? Shouldn’t the Blacks have already seized it as the closest living relatives?”

“I’m not omniscient, Brown. And I suggest you stop with all these inane questions because no one likes nosy witches.”

Rastaban closed his eyes for a second, contemplating what he had just heard. The goblins worked under their own rules which meant that they would never let Sirius seize the vault while Rastaban was alive because Rastaban was the sole heir of the entire Potter fortune. Unfortunately, being a minor prevented Rastaban from claiming the vaults himself before he turned seventeen, causing a whole lot of inconvenience for his family in the past few months, especially since Dumbledore started to sniff around Rastaban’s case.

Bribing the goblins would be useless, at least with gold. But if he offered them something more valuable, something no one had yet and would increase the goblins’ power and status in the Wizarding World, they might get a better result. Sadly, none of his major inventions were ready for mass production or to be brought to the public’s knowledge, but he might be able to work around that.

Ludo Bagman’s magically enhanced voice dragged him out of his thoughts. The smarmy man was announcing the first Champion, Cedric Diggory, who walked out into the arena looking like he was moments away from passing out. Could it have been possible that no one had told him about the dragons before the task?

“It would be typical to Dumbledore,” Uncle Sirius muttered hatefully. “I wonder what Amos will do if his son dies.”

“He’ll probably try to tear Dumbledore apart before the old fool convinces him that it wasn’t his fault,” Uncle Lucius commented impassively.

Sirius hummed noncommittally. Down in the arena, Diggory was trying his best to survive the task, but in the end he didn’t manage to get away unscathed. At least he survived and managed to grab the golden egg in the end, but half of his face was covered in blisters and some medical personnel had to help him out of the arena. The stands erupted in cheers nevertheless, clapping and whistling over seeing one of the peers being accosted by a nesting dragon. Rastaban suppressed the intense urge to scowl at the atrocity of it.

The second Champion was a beautiful blonde witch who came more prepared. She had the same shimmery silver blond hair Uncle Lucius did, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out she was at least part-veela. She tried to lull her Green Welsh dragon into sleep by using her charm and was successful, except the dragon’s snoring lit her robes on fire and she had to put it out before she could go for the egg. It was an admirable if less exciting performance than Diggory’s had been.

Viktor came out last and he would have been great if his charm didn’t cause the dragon to step on a few of her eggs. It was a horrible sight, yet Rastaban’s darker side want him to grin viciously, because unknowingly, Viktor just gave his uncle and grandfather the perfect opportunity to raise hell both in the Ministry and in Hogwarts. He didn’t need to look at his family to know they were hiding their own satisfaction and anticipation, and he was very much looking forward to reading the next issue of The Daily Prophet.

They waited until the judges awarded their points before they took their leave, ignoring Dumbledore’s transparent attempts to coax them into staying for dinner and some interrogation. They said their goodbyes to Draco, Theodore, Viktor and some of the other Slytherins who decided to see them off and then they were on their way to London where Rastaban’s uncles and grandfather would plan their next move and Rastaban would take a portkey back to Lima to his papa and his life as a mostly ordinary teenager.


	8. Part VIII - Teenage Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away by your reviews and I'm sorry you had to wait so long for the new chapter. I hope it will show that Rastaban is far from perfect or has no emotions and you'll find him more likeable and not like a Gary Stu-like character.

**_Part VIII – Teenage Woes_ **

****

** 28 December 2006, Black House, Lima, Ohio **

Rastaban stared at Santana who was standing on his porch, looking less than fine. Her eyes were dulled and she wasn’t wearing any of her favoured make up. Her clothes were more suited for comfort than for aesthetics, too. Something must have happened since Rastaban had last seen her, and he had no illusions about not hearing about it in details.

“Your father?” Santana asked, her voice slightly hoarse.

“In New York.”

“Ah organizing your _elite_ birthday soiree? Where the plebs isn’t welcome?”

“If it’s your biggest dream to be publicly humiliated in front of the British noble society because you have no sense of self-conduct, feel free to drop by,” Rastaban snarked back without missing a beat. “But while you decide, why not come in?”

“You wouldn’t defend me?”

“I don’t know how you expect these things to go, but underage girls and boys are kept separated until dinner and even after the ball is officially opened by the host and their family, you can’t just go up to someone and talk to them,” Rastaban explained calmly, finding immense enjoyment in Santana’s dumbfounded look. “It’s honestly not about rich people getting drunk and letting their hair down so to say. Your every move is carefully watched to be criticized later, and political games are played by everyone around you, meaning you can’t trust anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can keep your posh party to yourself. But you have to give a party here, too. I want to get drunk.”

“You’re thirteen.”

Santana shrugged, uncaring. “Some start early.”

“Sadly for you, there is not a chance I’d provide you with alcohol,” Rastaban said and led her to the sitting room, only to be grabbed by his wrist and dragged into his bedroom. “Are you going to cry?” he asked uncertainly when Santana threw herself on his bed like it was her own.

“Fuck you, Black,” came the muffled answer, but the girl’s shoulders were shaking. “You’re the worst friend ever.” Rastaban sighed and sat down next to her, but knew better than to try to touch her.

“We have freshly made ice cream?”

“Ice cream is for pussies. I want vodka. Or whiskey. Something that’ll kill enough brain cells that I’ll forget last night,” she snapped peering at him from the crook of his elbows.

“Sorry, still no.” Rastaban didn’t sound sorry at all. “But I guess I could listen.”

“And who says I want to talk to a dweeb like you?! You don’t even know what a set of boobs looks like let alone a real pussy,” Santana sniped nastily, her lips pulled into a deep scowl.

“Let me guess, you slept with Puckerman,” Rastaban said matter-of-factly, ignoring Santana’s wince.

“So what? The fucker fucked Brittany and there’s no chance I didn’t try him too.”

“You mean, you were jealous and had to make her feel bad, too.”

“You can shut your pristine fucking mouth, dickhead! I told you it’s ain’t nothing like that between me and Britt.” Santana raised her fist and punched Rastaban in his arm, hard.

“And I told you, I’m neither blind, nor stupid.” Rastaban refused to rub at the aching spot, but he glared at the girl nevertheless. “You brought Brittany to our first and only date, and defended her like a lioness when that uncouth waiter tried to humiliate her. Also, I’ve seen you two kissing far too many times for it to be platonic between you two.”

“Well, it is,” Santana shot back petulantly. “And I want you to kick Puckerman’s ass.”

“Why? Because at thirteen he was less than a stellar lover?”

“Less than stellar? He had no idea what he was doing! It hurt like hell and then he started panicking when saw the blood. So I demand you to kick his sorry ass for ruining my first time.”

Rastaban looked down at his friend and wondered if she was for real. He didn’t know much about Puckerman because they didn’t share any classes or have the same friends, but from what he’d heard from Kurt and Rachel, he wasn’t impressed. He sounded like an insolent brat, who was doing his best to destroy himself while hoping that someone would finally notice that he was suffering. After the last time Kurt had told him about the rumours going around about Puckerman, Rastaban seriously thought about telling his papa and making him take actions. Except, it wasn’t any of his business what a boy he didn’t have any connections to did with his life, and he seriously doubted Puckerman would have welcomed the meddling of a complete stranger.

Still, despite all the negative things he’d heard about him, Rastaban didn’t think being inexperienced in the bedroom was any reason to hurt the boy. Not to mention, he had seemed genuinely afraid when he had hurt Santana, or so it had sounded like.

“Did he stop when he noticed that you’re in pain?” Rastaban asked, staring at Santana imploringly.

“What if he did? It still sucked.”

“Did he try to help you?”

“Yeah, but it means nothing. He’s still a useless jackass.”

“And you’re a demanding brat who made her own decision about losing her virginity at thirteen to another thirteen year old mostly inexperienced kid and is now complaining about not getting what she expected,” Rastaban said, more harshly than he intended.

“I thought you’re my friend,” Santana said bitterly, and there was genuine hurt in her tone that caused Rastaban’s anger to deflate.

“I’m your friend, Santana, which is why I refuse to coddle you and tell you pretty lies,” he replied softly. “You made a bad call and you have to take responsibility for it.”

“Puck should have known better.”

“Why? Because he had had sex before you? He’s the same age as you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brittany was the first girl he had ever slept with.”

“That’s ridiculous. He already fucked half of the McKinley cheerleader squad and some soccer mom took his virginity,” Santana scoffed, rolling her eyes. Rastaban felt appalled at those rumours, especially because Santana made them sound like they were the most natural things in the world.

“Did it feel like he regularly sleeps with older women when he was with you?” he asked, trying to keep his composure.

“Hell no! I told you it felt like shit.”

“Then please refrain from spreading those awful rumours, because they can hurt Puckerman a lot.”

“He’s the one who started them! I overheard him boasting to Hudson a few months ago that he somehow got Madison’s mom in bed with him. What was I supposed to think?” Santana looked outraged, although Rastaban couldn’t decide if it was over believing what Puckerman had said or about Puck sleeping with an older woman.

“I somehow highly doubt that Mrs. Peterson would commit statutory rape with a thirteen-year-old.”

“You know Madison’s mom? Wait, stupid question, of course you know her. You know everyone’s mother, father and probably their great-great-great-grandfather too,” Santana said, but her voice wasn’t as venomous as she probably wanted it to be.

“The Petersons like to believe they’re only a step away from high society and my papa likes to indulge them because under all the soft smiles and reservation, he’s as much of a trickster as my uncle is,” Rastaban replied shrugging one of his shoulder and then promptly had to hide a wince at the sharp jolt that ran through his body. He hated that damned monitoring charm.

“Which one? The pompous, but yummy blond or the one who was creeping over at us during our ‘date’?”

“Sirius. He was the one who chaperoned our ‘date’,” he mimicked Santana air quotes with a smirk.

“It doesn’t mean she wouldn’t try an eager little morsel if she got the chance.”

“You know that if that rumour came out and turned out to be true, Mrs. Peterson would face some serious jail time, right?” At Santana’s indifferent expression, he added, “Also, Mrs. Puckerman would probably be taken under inspection by the child care services.”

“Are you trying to con me into talking Puck out of spreading bullshit about his studliness?” Santana asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m not trying to do anything, Santana. It’s up to you if you care about Puck’s future and well-being enough to do the right thing.”

“Why don’t you do it, if you’re so worried about poor little Pucky?”

“Because I don’t know him. You can believe that I would have kicked his ass already if I were his friend.” Naturally, the charm activated at the profanity jolting him even more strongly than before, and this time Rastaban couldn’t entirely hide his wince at the sudden pain, earning a strange look from Santana.

“You’re a devious bastard, you know that?”

“I heard it takes one to know one.”

“I hate you.”

“Of course, you do. That’s why you’re sprawled out on my bed like a starfish, whining to me about your mistakes.”

“You take that back, Black, or you’ll regret it.”

“My bad,” Rastaban said, amused. “I mistook your very serious complaints for the crying of an insolent child.”

“Fuck you!” Santana snapped and hurled a throw pillow into Rastaban’s head who could barely evade the attack. “You gonna feed me for that asshat comment.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rastaban questioned cheekily as he got up from the bed and headed to the kitchen with a small laugh.

Santana cursed after him, but she followed him nevertheless. Their friendship was a strange one, yet Rastaban had never felt freer before. Santana didn’t expect him to be perfect and was more than ready to defend herself if she had to, something that Rastaban appreciated and admired in her. And even if he didn’t say it out loud, he valued their friendship as much as he valued his friendship to Theo and Kurt.

** 6 January 2007, Black House, Lima Ohio **

“What is Berry doing here, Black?!” Santana demanded the moment she laid her eyes on Rachel who was sipping from a tea cup.

“She said she’s trying to master the art of aristocratic tea drinking whatever that might be,” Rastaban replied easily, waving his hand noncommittally.

“No, I meant here, in your house.”

“You wanted me to throw a birthday party because you felt left out when you didn’t get an invitation to the annual Black Yule Gala. I’m doing that.”

“Don’t play that shit with me, you perfectly know what I’m talking about.”

“Rachel is my friend, why shouldn’t she be here?” Rastaban blinked innocently, but it was hard to contain the smug smirk that wanted to turn the corners of his mouth up.

“Because she’s a total loser? I thought you were finally coming to your senses about associating yourself with the outcast,” Santana hissed, crossing her arm in front of her chest.

“I’m pretty sure, I’m one of the outcast myself.”

“Because you choose to be!”

“More like because I’m that arrogant rich kid who believes he’s too good for everyone at our school,” Rastaban shot back earning an angry glare.

It had been a constant argument between them for far too long. Santana wanted Rastaban to abandon Kurt and Rachel and join the popular kids, while Rastaban refused to do it without taking Kurt and Rachel with him. Over the last year and a half he had got into more fights just to defend his friends than in the previous ten altogether, including his painfully short stint at Bauxbatons. The students of Emmerson Junior High saw him as either crazy for associating with the resident screech ball and fairy or as an arrogant jerk who publicly snubbed Santana Lopez’s offer to sit with the jocks and cheerleaders at lunch because he thought himself above them.

Of course there were also those who loved to make up rumours about him behind his back while acted all nice and sweet in his face. Rastaban hated those people the most. And sometimes he hated that his upbringing demanded him to bear the whispers and made-up crap with his head held high and proud. Because ridiculous fabrications could never touch a Black. Sometimes, when his nightmares about being crucioed to insanity or the heart-breaking begging of Lily Potter kept him up all night, he thought about throwing everything his family had been working for away and coming clean about his real identity. He thought of telling the world that he was Harry Potter, that he was alive and had been under the Wizarding World’s nose all this time without them ever noticing.

He thought of running away sometimes, too. Of hiding away from the responsibilities, the endless political games and from always having to pretend that he was perfect. That he was great with people and always knew what to say, how to solve problems, how to draw others’ attention just by walking into a room. He was none of those things. He remembered hiding away in the library the first time he had to attend a gathering, because he didn’t want to deal with people. He remembered being terrified of failing and disappointing his family by not living up to their expectations, which caused him to try even harder and yet he still wasn’t good enough for everyone.

He looked down at Santana who was staring back at him defiantly, daring him to comment on the absence of Brittany. Rastaban didn’t because he wasn’t cruel and there were others in the room. Also because Santana would probably rip his tongue out if he did. She was one hell of a fierce girl and Rastaban couldn’t be more grateful for her not being born as a witch. Not that she needed magic to rule their school with iron fists, her status as the most popular girl absolute and unwavering. She was sarcastic, brash and vulgar, but under the layers of barbed steel she genuinely cared for those who were close to her.

Rastaban liked that about her the most and felt proud to be considered one of those people who were close to Santana’s heart even if the girl would never admit it. They made great friends and Rastaban hoped their friendship would stand against time and people’s expectations. She was the only one who never let him fall too deep into his role as the flawless noble heir and was more than happy to call him out on being a stuck up prat. In turn, Rastaban didn’t fawn over her or try to use her. They were equals who challenged each other and supported each other at the same time.

This time, they definitely weren’t even considering supporting each other. “I wanted a party, but I only get Kermit Berry and Princess Hummel?” Santana growled, ignoring Rachel’s indignant ‘Hey!’ from the sofa. Kurt just rolled his eyes in derision. “Where is the champagne and the glamour?”

“In New York where they belong,” Rastaban replied curtly, not wanting to think about the scandal that ruined the entire night and was splashed over the front page of every magical newspaper the next day. “You wanted a party, well you’re getting a party, but I decide what kind of party it’s going to be.”

“Really now? And what are we going to do? Braid each other’s hair and paint our nails while gossiping about people you don’t know because you’re a special wallflower who only interacts with people at school if they’re big enough of a freaks for you or if they’re trying to beat you up?”

“Santana, your bitch is showing,” Kurt commented frostily. “And you can leave anytime. No one forces you to stay.”

“No one asked you, Hummel,” Santana snapped.

“You’re ruining Rastaban’s party and it hasn’t even started yet.”

“What party? There are three guests altogether! Three, and two of them are huge losers.”

“Not my fault no one can appreciate my winning personality,” Rastaban shrugged, grinning when the monitoring charm remained dormant.

“Your personality sucks. I have no idea what those reporters snort but to call you charming and sweet and charismatic,” Santana scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I have no idea how you always get away with beating up those brainless idiots on the football team.”

“I’m lucky.”

“I think you pronounced blackmailing them wrong,” Kurt piped up. “Oh and you know, no teacher checks the dumpsters and no one tells them the jocks are copying their counterparts at McKinley by throwing less lucky students in the dumpsters.”

“Oh, I heard about that!” Rachel said looking at them with wide eyes. “Two girls in my English class were talking about how David and his friends took Jacob behind the dumpsters. But I thought they just beat him up.”

“Don’t tell me, you defended Jewfro’s fragile honour, too?” Santana looked at Rastaban with so much disgust he almost felt bad.

“No, Santana,” he replied, curling his lips in distaste. “Whatever you might think, I’m not some deluded superhero replica who rushes to aid every vulnerable and weak person in our glorious town.”

“I’d be more inclined to believe you if two of the biggest dweebs weren’t sitting in your fancy living room, sipping your posh tea from your posh china set.”

“I’d serve you some soda in a can but Papa has banned everything with sugar in it from the house.” He didn’t add that his father only did so after witnessing how the sugar rush caused Rastaban’s magic to lash out and nearly destroy their backyard.

“Meh,” Santana said with a roll of her eyes, “your daddy has no idea how to have fun.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Rastaban smirked at the memory of his father dancing with Evan at the Gala. They were a sight to behold and they both knew it. Everyone was talking about them, whispering about the courting and possible engagements, at least until that moron of a British Minister hadn’t decided to ruin the whole night. Rastaban thinned his lips for a moment, earning a quirked eyebrow from Santana. “He left us all alone in the house, didn’t he?”

“Wait, are you telling me that we’ll be alone? No spies and chastity guards?”

“Yes. Papa trusts me and knows I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“Like giving me a nice bottle of Champaign?”

“Or sleeping with you?” Kurt added, smiling sweetly. Santana’s glare was lethal. “Rumours spread like wild fire, Lopez. Especially at such a small school like ours.”

“That was uncalled for, Kurt,” Rastaban said before Santana could have come up with a cutting remark.

“Her entire attitude is uncalled for but I don’t see you complaining all that much,” Kurt retorted tartly, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I think this was a bad idea, Ras. We obviously don’t mesh all that well.”

“Maybe if you stopped snarking at each other like old hags over a tray of bad human nails, you’d find that you have more in common than you think.”

“Like what? Santana is everyone’s bicycle–” Rachel started only to scream in fright when Santana lunged for her.

“Enough!” Rastaban snapped, losing his patience. He grabbed Santana by her waist to keep her from tearing Rachel to pieces. “Look at yourselves. You’re all strikingly similar, bitching and complaining over having to interact with each other. Pathetic.”

“Because you’re so much better?” Santana snarled, throwing a glare over her shoulder.

“I don’t remember ever treating you like trash or worthless. Either of you.”

“Ah yeah, you’re Saint Rastaban, guardian angel of the poor, helpless souls. How could I forget?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, you’re ridiculous if you think that I can have any kind of good time with two losers like them.”

“Don’t worry, Lopez, the feeling is mutual,” Kurt shot back, his face pinched in disgust. “After all, orgies and getting smashed are only considered fun in _some_ circles.”

“You really want to go there, sissy boy?”

“You might call me names, but I’m not the one who’s seen as Lima’s new slut.”

“I said enough!” Rastaban’s voices seemed to resonate in the room, shutting the bickering Kurt and Santana up instantly. “You,” he hissed, poking Santana in the back of her neck, “demanded me to have a birthday party but haven’t even wished me a happy birthday because you thought whining and ranting about the other guests were more important. And you,” he pointed at Kurt and Rachel, “are the same. Why the hell are you even here?!”

“Well, you have to admit, Ras, four people hardly make a cool party,” Kurt replied cautiously. “I mean, I understand that you don’t have many friends at school, but you could have invited Theodore at least.”

“Who the heck is Theodore?” Santana asked.

“My best friend. Who is currently at his boarding school.”

“Let me guess, he was at your fancy New York party.”

“Considering he’s the younger brother of my uncle’s betrothed and the second son of an established British noble family, yes, he was there.”

“Betrothed? You mean fiancée?” Rachel asked, frowning.

“They haven’t announced their engagement yet, so no. Thad is Uncle Sirius’ betrothed, meaning they are going to get engaged in the near future but they haven’t yet.”

“Wait a second. Thad?” Santana asked in confusion. “What kind of female name is Thad?”

“It’s not. His name is Thaddeus Nott. And he’s very much a man.”

“So your uncle is a f… gay?”

“He prefers men, yes. So does my father, actually.”

Both Santana’s and Kurt’s mouths were hanging open while Rachel suddenly looked much more cheerful, clapping her hands together. “Splendid!” she said with a small giggle, trying to sound British and failing spectacularly. “I’ll tell my daddies to find a nice, respectable man for your father.”

“Because Regulus Black would ever mix with the plebs,” Santana scoffed, finding her composure in belittling anything Rachel said. “But really? How do you even exist then? Bit of denial or experimenting gone wrong?”

“Surrogacy,” Rastaban replied, the lie coming easily to his mouth. “But it’s a secret, so I hope I can trust your discretion.”

“Wait, I’ve read in _Vogue_ that your birth mother was some Irish neuroscientist who had an affair with your father,” Kurt interjected with a frown.

“Did you really expect my papa to admit that he hired a surrogate to carry me to term because he was gay?”

“This is the 21st century.”

“And my family is British nobility. You only see the juicy pieces of gossip in the tabloids but never the real impact scandals have on people,” Rastaban countered curtly. Kurt frowned back at him, but he didn’t try to argue with that.

“But wait,” Santana piped up, her eyes narrowed. “Gay marriage is not legal in most states or Britain.”

“Yes, in most states but not in all of them,” Rastaban replied nonchalantly, not mentioning that the Wizarding World couldn’t care less about a couple’s gender when it came to marriage. In a world where giants, vampires and werewolves mixed with humans, gender issues were near non-existent. Naturally, there were the old school traditionalists who saw marriage as the ultimate tool to conceive heirs and make a family stronger. The Blacks themselves used to be that way, but ever since the unfortunate demise of Walburga and especially since Sirius had taken the mantle of the Head of the House, they prided themselves in being progressive and exploiting any and every opportunity that could make their standing in society more powerful.

“Why haven’t I found anything about this anywhere?” Kurt asked incredulously. “The media would kill for a story like this.”

“You obviously haven’t been around much, Hummel. Black’s daddy and grandfather have the most terrifying lawyers I’ve ever seen. I bet they’re holding the media’s balls in vice-like grip and smirking while sipping their rich guy tea,” Santana said, rolling her eyes. “Tell me, I’m wrong, Black.”

“Our lawyers drink coffee as black as their hearts,” Rastaban shot back with a smirk. “You know they’re uncouth Americans like you lot.”

“Oh, don’t even start that shit with me, I’ve seen you chug that while black tar shit down like nobody’s business too many times to believe your snobbish yaps,” Santana retorted with a scowl before her lips curled into a nasty smile. “By the way, _Ras_ , does your dear Papa know about your terribly bad habit of drinking coffee?”

Kurt and Rachel snorted at Santana’s quip, both knowing well that Rastaban’s coffee drinking was something he’d been keeping from his father. He allowed himself to scowl at his friends who were still laughing at him, pleased to see them slowly warming up to each other, even if it for one afternoon.

“Laugh it up, all you want,” he said mimicking Draco’s most haughty tone, “but you forget that I have dirt on all of you.”

“Ras,” Kurt started with a pitying smile on his face, “you’re the noblest person I’ve ever seen.”

“So what? I could still use the information I have against you.”

“Don’t pout, Rastaban, we know you’re all scary and devious,” Rachel piped in, her grin wide and placating. “Just not when it comes to us.”

“Yeah, Black, stop with the bitching. You’re a big, scary supervillain 98% of the time,” Santana added her own two cents, waving her hand dismissively. “Not your fault you’re a total pushover when it comes to your friends.”

“Luckily for you,” Rastaban muttered, folding his arms in front of his chest.

“Yes. Now what did you plan for today? And if you say board games, I’m out of here.”

 “Board games.”

“Fuck you, Black.”

“I’ll pass, but thanks for the kind offer.”

“Are you two always this aggressive?” Rachel asked, her eyebrows disappearing under her bangs.

“Are you really this blind, Berry? They’re not being aggressive,” Kurt replied with a huff.

“I’m not blind, Kurt, but you can hear them too! They’ve been at each other’s throat since Santana arrived.”

“Oh my god, Berry, we’re teasing each other,” Santana snapped in irritation. “As much as it pains me to admit, Black is kind of a friend and he’s not too delicate to take my shit.”

“Yes, it’s really surprising but you’re actually a good match for each other,” Kurt admitted thoughtfully. “Ras has a very quick and witty personality that’s usually lost on our moronic peers while Santana is sharp and will bite your head off if you do something she doesn’t like. It’s obvious that you two can take whatever the other dishes out.”

“I don’t think our friendship is so dramatic,” Rastaban said. “We simply have an understanding.”

“And what’s that?”

“None of your fucking business, Berry,” Santana sneered. “And you,” she poked Rastaban in the chest, “don’t think I forgot you still haven’t told me what we’re going to do. Also, I’m thirsty. Pour me some of your fancy juice or something.”

Rastaban quelled the urge to roll his eyes. Santana was trying to get a rise out of him, but he refused to give her the satisfaction. Not when she already had too much to gloat and mock him about. He offered his best noble heir smile instead and walked over to the table at the far wall and grabbed the one of the jugs filled with freshly made honeyed cider.

“Here, you can pretend it has some alcohol in it,” he said, handing the glass over to Santana who raised an eyebrow at him and sniffed the steaming liquid.

“Hm… Maybe you’re not as useless as you seem,” she conceded after taking a sip, but her delightedly sparkling eyes belied her nonchalance. “Now stop being a secretive asshole and tell us what’s the plan.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, but I think even you will be satisfied with my choice of activity.” Rastaban smirked at the scowl Santana sent his way before he turned to Rachel and Kurt who were watching their interaction silently. “Would you like some cider, too?”

“Is it vegan?” Rachel asked.

“Don’t start, Rachel,” Kurt warned sharply. “It’s apple juice and some spices, how could it not be vegan?”

“I’ll have you know–”

“I don’t care. Please, pour me a glass, Ras. Berry can continue to sip her cold tea.”

“No, I want some, too!”

“That was very ladylike, Berry. Hope it’s the way you plan to act when Black’s daddy or grandfather gets home, too.”

“You know his grandfather?”

“Sure, though, I still can’t believe the guy is old enough to have two adult sons let alone a grandson.” Santana looked at Rastaban with a wicked grin. “You sure your gramps isn’t actually your uncle?”

This time Rastaban did roll his eyes. “Grandfather married early.”

“You can say that again,” Kurt piped in. “I read that he was forced to marry his own cousin.”

“What? Where you find such horrible gossip?” Rachel gasped. “Who would marry their own cousin?”

“Inbreeding blue bloods?” Santana asked, but her tone wasn’t really judgmental, something Rastaban was immensely grateful for. “Although it was his second cousin.”

“Not much better, no offence, Ras,” Kurt grimaced, throwing an apologetic look at Rastaban. “I can’t imagine getting intimate with Sarah or Kathy.”

“That’s because you’re a fairy, no offence, Hummel,” Santana shot back. “And I doubt anyone asked Mr. Black whether he wanted to marry his second cousin or not. He was what? Fourteen? How did that even work?”

Rastaban sighed and busied himself with pouring drinks to collect his composure. Discussing his family’s history, especially when it was as far from roses and rainbows as it could get, wasn’t one of his perfect pastime, yet as most of it was public knowledge, not to mention he didn’t want to seem like he was ashamed of what his predecessors had done, he couldn’t ignore his friends’ questions.

“He was sixteen and Walburga was twenty,” he answered finally, handing the two glasses to Kurt and Rachel then he took a seat in his favourite armchair, suppressing a wince when Santana plopped into his lap unceremoniously. He didn’t add that Sirius and Regulus weren’t born until much later, because they wouldn’t believe that his grandfather was actually over sixty years old. 

“What? It’s my favourite chair too. Black just has to learn to share.”

“Are you two dating?” Rachel asked, trying for innocent but coming across as envious. Rastaban really hoped that she wasn’t holding some sort of delusion about their future together.

“Don’t even try, Kermit. Black is so out of your league that he’s playing a totally different sport,” Santana sniped nastily, making Rastaban pinch her side. “You pinch me again, Black, and I’ll snap your fingers off.”

“Don’t be rude. It’s not Rachel’s fault that your behaviour is misleading.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to tell her she has no chance bagging you as her trophy husband, because you’re too freaking polite for your own good.”

“How dare you?! I have as much chance as any girl for a relationship with Rastaban. When we’re both ready for such things of course.”

“Seriously?” Kurt looked scandalised. “Just how crazy are you, Rachel Berry?”

“I’m fully sane, thank you very much! Rastaban, tell them that I have just as much chance–”

“No. Just nope. I don’t want to hear,” Santana cut in, saving Rastaban from having to come up with a delicate way to break it to Rachel that he would never date or Merlin forbid, marry her. “Tell me about your yummy grandpa, Black. How come you call him grandfather but you call your grandmother Walburga, and what kind of fucked up name is that by the way?”

“I’m loyal to my family and Walburga doesn’t deserve to be mentioned as such.”

“Why?” Kurt asked, interest peaked once again.

“Let me guess, she cheated on your grandpa and then left her family behind with her lover.”

“You’re watching way too many soap operas, Santana,” Rastaban chuckled quietly.

“Doesn’t mean I’m actually wrong.”

“I never said you were.” Santana looked down at him, eyes narrowed.

“But you didn’t say that I’m right either.”

“True,” Rastaban said enigmatically, earning a vicious dig between his ribs.

“Asshole. How comes your grandpa didn’t find a new woman? Or man.”

“My grandfather doesn’t really care about romance. He is content.”

“Who cares about romance?” Santana scoffed, ignoring Rachel’s and Kurt’s indignant protests. “What about sex? Don’t tell me he’s been going without since his divorce.”

“I don’t make it my business to know whom my grandfather takes to bed,” Rastaban replied, trying to put as much repulsion into his tone as he could.

“You’re no fun, Black. Just no fun.”

“Don’t write me off so quickly. I might surprise you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Rastaban smirked slowly at his friend before turned to Kurt and Rachel with a wide, mischievous smile. His green eyes were sparkling as he felt the wards shift around the person arriving to the front door, and a moment later the doorbell rang.

“Did you invite more people?” Kurt asked curiously.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Rastaban nudged Santana off his lap and went to the door to open it.

Evan Rosier was smiling widely as he bent down to kiss Rastaban’s cheek, shedding formality without the slightest care in the world. His golden hair was styled to perfection, his clothes screamed quality and wealth and he even let his facial hair grow out some, trimming the equally golden scruff into a short, neat beard. His blue eyes were shining with magic and mayhem as he stepped into the hall and took off his coat.

“You’re as stunning as always, Rastaban,” he said, offering his arm to Rastaban with a conspiratory wink. “How is your father?”

“Thank you, Evan,” Rastaban answered politely, offering the man a small smile as he laced his arm through Evan’s. “Papa is doing well. He is currently in London with Grandfather, Uncle Sirius and Uncle Lucius.”

Evan’s eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of Lucius, which pleased Rastaban to no end, but in the end he managed to reign his magic and emotions in. “Ah yes,” he said with a half smirk that looked more like a sneer, “playing political games and trying to get Dumbledore sacked. How exciting.”

“Making our world a better place is a noble cause,” Rastaban replied lightly, earning a disbelieving snort from Evan.

“You speak like him. All grandiose plans and idealistic views, but who will pick up the shards of your hearts if reality crashes over you?”

“Are you doubting our success?”

“I’m simply worried that you’re going to burn yourselves. Dumbledore is a cunning, brilliant and wizened man who has seen much more than even your grandfather.”

“He is a worthy opponent, but he’s blinded by his quest to conquer a Dark Lord who has been dead for thirteen years.” Rastaban pressed his lips together, forcing himself not to touch his forehead where his old scar was hidden under the permanent disguise of runic concealers.

“There are whispers about the Dark Lord’s survival,” Evan countered, running two of his fingers down his left forearm.

“Whispers.”

“They speak of black magic and split souls,” Evan whispered, eyes darting over to the sitting room. “But there is no proof. None.” He touched his forearm again, raising an eyebrow at Rastaban. “But this is not the time to talk about such morose issues. We’re here to celebrate and doll you and your little friends up.”

It would have been strange to see a pureblood wizard like Evan Rosier breeze into a sitting room occupied by three muggle children as if it was an everyday occurrence for him if Rastaban hadn’t known that Evan had spent years studying fashion in the muggle world after he had faked his death to get out of Voldemort’s thumb. He had been living amongst non-magical people longer than Rastaban had been alive and he had shed his prejudices a long time ago.

The way Kurt’s eyes widened when he saw Evan told Rastaban that his friend had recognised the older man and if his expression was anything to go by, he was dying to interrogate Rastaban about his relationship with Evan. On the other hand, Rachel didn’t show any signs of recognising Evan, while Santana was simply staring hungrily at the stunning wizard.

“I can almost forgive you for the lame party, Black,” she commented offhandedly.

“I’m glad you approve, Miss…” Evan replied smoothly, his smile charming yet dangerous.

“Lopez. Santana Lopez, but you can call me anything you want.” She winked, causing Kurt to choke and Evan to chuckle. Rachel’s face contorted into a complicated but obviously disgusted expression while Rastaban just rolled his eyes, which earned him a curious glance from Evan who must have known about the monitoring charm placed on him.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Lopez. I’m Evan Rosier,” Evan said bowing his head respectfully. Santana blushed, thrown by the formal introduction.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she managed after a few seconds of flustered silence and actually went as far as offering her hand to Evan which shocked Rastaban endlessly. “I wish, boys my age were as polite and refined as you.”

“I’m sure, Rastaban is a fine young gentleman.”

The way Santana looked at Evan was full of disbelief. “A fine young gentleman,” she repeated slowly. “Right.”

“Is he not?” Evan’s smile turned gleeful and it made Rastaban slightly uncomfortable.

“Ras’ manners are impeccable, current exception notwithstanding,” Kurt butted in primly. “He usually knows how to introduce his company, at least.”

“Forgive my rudeness. You’re entirely right, Kurt,” Rastaban replied, snatching up the opportunity to change the subject. “Santana, Rachel, Kurt, this is Lord Evan Rosier the Earl of Cumberland and also a highly sought after fashion designer. He is a dear family friend. Evan, these are my friends and classmates, Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel.”

“It’s an honour to meet you, Lord Rosier,” Rachel said, dipping low in an overly complicated curtsy that seemingly amused Evan to no end. “How long are you staying in our humble little town?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Berry,” Evan answered, bowing his head. “And I’m only here for the afternoon. Actually, I’m part of the surprise Rastaban has prepared for you.”

“Lord Rosier,” Kurt bowed respectfully, “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hummel. I heard you are quite well versed in the intricate language of fashion.”

“Oh, I still have much to learn. But I’m doing my best to keep up with the current trends.” Kurt’s face turned a deep shade of red, which amused Rastaban and warmed his heart at the same time. He’d known that Kurt was going to be ecstatic to get the chance to meet Evan, but seeing it in person was a near priceless experience.

“You’re doing a fine job from what I see,” Evan said inclining his head towards Kurt’s outfit. “Maybe we could talk about the possibility of you sending me some of your own work, but for now I believe young Rastaban here has a little surprise for you all.”

Rastaban nodded regally, his lips almost twitching with glee as he saw his friends’ suspicious expressions. “Yes, thank you, Evan,” he said. “Santana wanted to have a grand, glamorous party but I hate parties. So I decided to give you something else you would all enjoy.”

“No way.” It’s Kurt who said it, his eyes wide as saucers as he looked from Rastaban to Evan and then back again. “If you’re just playing games, Ras–”

“I can assure you I’m not playing games. We’re going to New York for the weekend.”

“New York,” Santana repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes. “And you think our parents will let us travel to New York with you? For an entire weekend?”

“I know they are letting you because Papa and I already talked to them,” Rastaban replied offhandedly.

The shriek that left Rachel’s mouth was nearly ear-splitting and her thin arms showed a surprising amount of strength when she jumped in Rastaban’s neck. “We have to watch a Broadway show, we absolutely must, Ras! And have a picnic in Central Park and I want to sing at Time Square!”

“Oh my god, Berry, shut up, will you?” Santana groaned as she reached out and yanked Rachel away from Rastaban. “And stop smothering Black before you kill our only chance to see New York without our parents.”

 “I’m glad you have your priorities set straight,” Rastaban said with a shake of his head even as Evan chuckled in amusement. Santana winked at him with a wide grin stretching her lips. “And I hope you don’t expect us to spend the entire weekend on our own.”

“Why the hell not?! We’re fourteen and can take care of ourselves!”

“I am fourteen, Santana, you barely turned thirteen a couple of month ago.”

“Well, fuck you, Black, I’m mature for my age.”

“Good for you, but I’m not. So you either accept that Evan and Uncle Lucius will spend the next few days with us or you go home now,” Rastaban shot back coolly.

“Lucius,” Evan repeated, his tone expression carefully blank but his tone was full of disdain. “I wasn’t aware that Lucius is joining us.”

“He insisted when he overheard Papa and Uncle Sirius’ conversation about trusting you with our safety for the weekend,” Rastaban replied, hiding his amusement at the outrage flashing in Evan’s eyes. “I hope it’s not a problem. Papa wanted to be there himself but the issues in London are keeping him away.”

“Yes, he told me. He must have forgotten to mention Lucius’ involvement,” Evan gritted out. “It looks like I’ll have my work cut out for me if I don’t want him to suck all the fun out of the weekend.”

“Uncle Lucius isn’t that bad,” Rastaban said, reminding Evan who he was talking to without really saying anything.

“Of course not,” Evan allowed with a dismissive wave of his hand, “he’s a noble lord who places propriety above everything else. But enough about Lord Malfoy, I’m here to prepare you for your debut on the red carpet tonight!”

Rachel shrieked again and Rastaban had to physically restrain both Santana and Kurt not to strangle her. It was about to be an eventful three days.

** 12 February 2007, Emmerson Junior High School, Lima, Ohio **

Rastaban nearly dropped his fencing gear when an insane, shrieking whirlwind flew into his arms, squeezing the life out of him. It took him a few moments to realize that he wasn’t actually being choked to death but hugged by a still screeching Rachel who was also hitting him with something glossy and book-like.

“I can’t believe this! Ras, look at this!” she screamed into Rastaban’s ear who winced in pain but did his best to stay calm. “We’re in _Teen Vogue_!”

Rastaban didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. He knew about the article because his papa told him that having a good rapport with the media was essential in their current situation. If that meant that he had to pose on the red carpet with his muggle friends and act like he was born to be hounded by the ever eager press, then he walked onto the red carpet with Rachel Berry on his arm and offered a charming but empty smile to the sea of cameras.  

 

He didn’t know what the muggle media said about him or his friends because he never cared about the fluffed up lies that filled the papers when it came to his family, but based on Rachel’s expression, it must have been something that pleased her immensely. If it was anything like the magical papers and magazines had written back in January, then it was no surprise that she was happy, of course. The Daily Prophet called her Rastaban’s mysterious love interest with a question mark while the American Charming Times wondered if the Black Heir was trying to throw away the ancient and outdated Wizarding traditions and choose his own future bride who was a muggle.

Draco’s letter had been, of course, outraged. He had demanded to know the truth about Rastaban’s relationship with Rachel and told Rastaban that he would refuse to associate himself with Rastaban if he was really dating that poor muggle. Rastaban, in turn, had expressed his deepest regret about not being able to talk to his cousin in the future but he was just so in love with Rachel that he could never give that feeling up. According to Theo, Draco had nearly fainted when he read Rastaban’s response and then gone to whine to his father about Rastaban ruining their family’s reputation and name.

Uncle Lucius hadn’t been pleased, although Rastaban suspected that it had more to do with having to be subjected to Draco’s complaints than the little prank Rastaban played. Uncle Sirius on the other hand had found the whole issue hilarious especially because the Prophet questioned Lucius involvement with a bunch of muggle children. Rastaban’s papa had only shaken his head and dropped a light kiss onto Rastaban’s temple, gently chiding him for teasing his gullible cousin.

Now it was February and it seemed that the muggle press had finally managed to catch up with the events. Naturally, some of the daily papers wrote about Evan’s fashion show but they were more concerned with the muggle celebrities gracing the red carpet than Rastaban and his friends. But the monthly magazines were only just publishing their new issues, and it seemed like some of them might have found Rastaban interesting enough once again to talk about.

“That’s good, Rachel,” he said calmly before he gently pried her arms off his neck. “I’m sure your parents are proud.”

“Who cares about my gay dads?! The media thinks I’m your new mystery girlfriend! This is the best day ever!” she gushed, her big brown eyes shining manically. “You think I should tell them about us?”

Rastaban raised one of his eyebrows incredulously. “There is no such thing as us. You’re my friend.”

Rachel frowned up at him and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “But there could be. We could be great together, a real power couple, you know. Rule the school instead of being ignored by people who are much less talented and intelligent than us.”

“You’re thirteen, Rachel.”

“Santana is thirteen too and you know how… free spirited she is.”

“What Santana does with her life is her decision. You’re not her.”

“But I could be if that’s what you like,” Rachel pressed, trying to plaster her body against Rastaban’s. He took a step back and put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“No. I said no, and I expect you to respect my decision just like you would expect a boy who asked you out to respect your decision,” he said seriously, his green eyes commanding obedience.

“But why?” Rachel whined, stomping her foot. “We could be so great together! It’s that I’m not slutty enough? Or is it my clothes? I can change if that’s what you want, Ras. Just tell me what to do.”

“It’s because you’re a whiney bitch, Berry,” came the disgusted reply from Santana who was standing a few feet away from them with a disdainful scowl on her face. “Black said no, so shut up and take it like a woman should. With grace, if you know what that word means.”

“Just like you took it gracefully when you heard about that Noah had cheated on you?” Rachel shot back cruelly. “And I know you’re just jealous because it’s me who _Teen Vogue_ called Rastaban’s ‘mystery girl’ and not you!”

“Careful, Berry, or I’ll rip your tongue out and stuff it down your bitchy throat,” Santana warned, glaring daggers at Rachel. “You got your five seconds of fame, be happy with it, because it sure as well won’t make you less of a loser.” She sauntered up to Rastaban and wound her arm around his. “And leave Black alone. She doesn’t want you.”

“How dare you?!” Rachel exploded grabbing for Rastaban’s other arm, but Rastaban was quick and avoided her touch easily. “Ras?”

“I’m your friend, Rachel, and I’m never going to be more.” And not just because my family would never let me get involved with a muggle, he didn’t add.

He honestly didn’t understand the desperate way the children around him tried to find boyfriends and girlfriends, and fell head first into sexual relationships without really knowing what to do or how to please even themselves. He was fourteen, older than most of his classmates, yet he didn’t feel the need to throw himself at other people. He was more than fine with enjoying the pleasure of his own hands and magic, exploring his boundaries gradually. Not to mention when would he find the time to maintain any kind of healthy relationship with someone else?

He allowed Santana to pull him away and lead him down the hallways towards the exit. “You’re giving me a ride to your place,” she stated haughtily.

“I thought you have cheerleading practice,” Rastaban replied, not really fazed by Santana’s snippy tone.

“Fuck cheerleading,” Santana snapped. “Your smoking hot uncle better be here to pick us up.”

“Is this about the article?” Rastaban asked as they walked down the front steps of the school. Uncle Sirius’ car was already parked nearby, his powerful figure leaning against the passenger’s door.

Sirius’ arms were folded and while his face was set in a passive expression his grey eyes were ablaze with fury. “I’m afraid you can’t come over today, Santana,” he said when Rastaban and Santana reached him. Santana opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Rastaban squeezed her arm, still linked with his own.

“I’m going to be fine,” he assured her quietly, earning a scoff.

“As if I was worried about your delicate feelings,” she muttered. “Just drop me off at my house and call me tonight.”

“Of course.” Rastaban nodded at his uncle before they got into the car, not asking questions. Sirius wouldn’t talk in front of Santana anyway, and whatever had happened, it must have been serious if it angered his uncle so much. “I know you can’t sleep without hearing my voice before going to bed.”

“You wish, Black. I’m not Berry, sorry.” Rastaban hummed, ignoring Uncle Sirius’ sharp look in the rearview mirror.

It looked like they were going to have more than one issue to discuss when they got home. Rastaban only hoped that whatever the problem was wouldn’t force them to move again. Because even if he didn’t want to admit it at first, he came to see Lima as his home. More than New York and certainly more than London, and he didn’t want to leave. Not when he was finally starting to feel like he belonged and made real connections to people his age who had no idea who he really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts and ideas are always welcome. And feel free to follow me on Tumblr: queenofthewips.tumblr.com


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